Whose Wedding Is It Anyway? by Melissa Senate Page B

twenty-seven years. What the hell is the difference?”
    “The difference is that until a year ago, you were nuts about your brother,” Jane said. “I know he drove you a little crazy, but I also know how much he means to you. I know you’ve been very protective of him your entire life. And I know that you love him to pieces.”
    “Call him, Eloise,” Amanda said.
    I fidgeted, still staring up at the ceiling.
    “Will you call him?” Jane asked.
    Blank page. Blinking cursor.
    “Eloise?”
    “Maybe I should just back out of the whole thing,” I said.
    Jane raised an eyebrow. “Out of a free hundred-thousand-dollar wedding?”
    “Out of everything,” I said. “The engagement, the wedding, everything.”
    “Don’t make this about Noah when it’s not,” Jane told me.
    “Meaning?” I asked.
    “Meaning, this is about you and your feelings about your father and your brother. It’s not about Noah. Don’t hurt what’s there and working.”
    “Maybe Noah and I aren’t working. Maybe I want a husband who’s around more than twice a week.”
    “And maybe you want a husband who you love very much,” Amanda said. “A husband who loves you very much.”
    Jane nodded. “And a husband who does quite inadvertently push buttons that force you to deal with stuff.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t want to deal with stuff. I just want to—”
    “Bury your head in the sand?” Amanda finished for me.
    Was that what I was doing? If you didn’t deal with something that you couldn’t deal with, were you a big fat ostrich?
    Jane squeezed my hand. “Eloise, I’m just saying that the fates of the universe have conspired against you—or for you, actually. You’ve got to produce a father and brother for your wedding feature. One of them is in your life—okay, he hasn’t been this past year. But you can remedy that.”
    “Does your grandmother have his phone number?” Amanda asked.
    I nodded.
    “Call him, El,” Jane said.
    I shook my head.
    “Call him,” she said again.
    Call.
    Don’t call.
    Call.
    Don’t call.
    Ah. The fates of the universe had conspired again and landed on Don’t Call.
    Two minutes later, I had a fake brother named Ewan McGregorly signed, sealed and available for delivery on Monday.

chapter 5

    W hereas I had three relatives, one AWOL since I was 5 and one I hadn’t spoken to in a year, Noah Benjamin had a cast of thousands. I tried to imagine Thanksgiving dinner with his family.
    Pass the turkey, please.
    Sorry, it weighs four hundred pounds. Self-serve!
    At least a hundred people were stuffed into Noah’s parents’ New Jersey house for our engagement party. There were siblings, first, second and third cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents and close friends of the family who were called Aunt This or Uncle That. There were children, at least ten, of various ages, building things out of Play-Doh or reading comic books or sulking about “this stupid boring party.” There were even two dogs, a German shepherd named Buddy and a terrier named Scruffy, playing teeth-tug-of-war with a ratty bone.
    And there was Noah, looking incredibly handsome inhis gray shirt and charcoal pants, debating the last presidential election with his uncles.
    Last but not least, there I was, facing the bookshelves (heavy on the leather-bound editions of classics, à la Philippa’s fake library) at the far end of the living room, sipping a glass of wine and staring at my watch, which tick-tick-ticked very slowly. It was only seven-thirty. Snippets of twenty different conversations went on around me. Mostly about me.
    “I hear both her parents are dead, poor thing.”
    “Nah, Eloise just doesn’t talk to her family.”
    “She’s very pretty, but a little skinny, don’t you think?”
    “Is Uncle Jeffrey coming?”
    “Some big advertising promotion for the magazine she works for.”
    “Maybe her father’s in prison. Some kind of white-collar crime, most likely.”
    “Beth says the bridesmaids have to wear