Nothing Worth Remarking On

Erin knocked before Andy could even raise his hand, knuckles sharp against the old wood. The door opened on the second knock, and Andy’s mother stood framed in the yellow light, already wearing her welcome smile.

“Hi Mom,” Andy said, but he was only halfway through the last word before his mother’s gaze slid to the woman beside him and stopped dead.

It was a quarter second of calculation: the eyes flickered from Andy’s face to Erin’s, then a slow scan down the length of her body, pausing on the mint green curve of shoulder, the unapologetically vast breasts, the wedge of flat abdomen.

She stepped straight into the chill, arms wide, and Erin had no choice but to let herself be gathered in. The hug wasn’t just for show. Andy’s mother squeezed, palms pressing with the conviction of someone who gave everyone the same warmth, whether they arrived on Sunday morning or the night before Christmas with a broken heart. “Look at you, sweetheart.” The first shudder of contact passed through Erin like a static charge; she froze, and Andy could see the tension radiate up her spine, like a person does when they have rehearsed a hundred versions of this moment and none of them involved being caught in a hug before even crossing the threshold. But she worked her arms up and around, careful as if she might break something fragile tucked inside the older woman’s sweater.

“You’re here,” Andy’s mother said, not letting go even after the words had time to settle. She gripped Erin by the elbows—nothing untoward, just enough to steer without touching the small of her back, as if aware of what it would mean to handle a body so transformed, but determined not to linger on it. “Come in, come in, both of you. It’s freezing.”

She kept the same grip through the doorway, and the three of them shuffled together into the front hallway, Erin still enveloped in a one-armed hug as if she had been adopted on the doorstep. The inside of the house was aggressively warm, furnace kicking up the familiar smell of dust and old carpet, the air tinged with lemon cleaner and bread. The entryway was exactly as Andy remembered: the battered boot rack, the tangle of forgotten scarves, his own high-school windbreaker still hanging on the lowest hook as if waiting for a boy who would never fill it again.

In the glare of the entryway light, Andy’s mother stopped and gave Erin another once-over, this time searching for evidence of something deeper. She found only the same girl she’d known years ago, now inhabiting the body of a mint-green nymph, and this seemed to bring a smile to her face rather than the reverse. “Nice car, in the driveway,” she observed, voice brisk but not unfriendly. “Convertible, isn’t it? I didn’t know you had one of those.”

Erin flicked a glance at Andy, then back to his mother. “It’s new,” she admitted, the words coming out small. “I’m still learning how to handle it in the cold.”

His mother nodded, as if this made complete sense. Then, after a pause, “I was just about to put the kettle on. Will you have tea or coffee? We have both.”

Erin hesitated, not sure if this was a test, and Andy watched her scan the faces in the room for a clue. She found none—just open expectation. “Tea, please,” she said. “Black, if you have it. No milk.”

Andy’s mother did not miss a beat, but her eyes moved to Erin’s face and held there for just a half second longer than necessary. “Of course I have it,” she said, and took Erin’s hand and pulled her toward the kitchen. “Come on, come on.”

The kitchen had not been renovated since Andy could remember, and it still bore the marks of every meal ever made inside it. The yellow tile counters were scrubbed clean but permanently scarred in places; the table, jammed up against the window, wore a faded blue cloth with the same pattern as the wallpaper above. The air was loaded with memory: garlic, lemon, a hint of old bread, and, underneath, the unshakable dust of central heating. Andy’s mother gestured for him to take a stool at the island, then deposited Erin at the one beside it. She moved with such unhurried certainty that Andy felt suddenly twelve years old again, brought home from a sleepover or a week at summer camp.

Seconds later, a sound from the den drew Andy’s attention. The television muted itself, and his father, Jim, appeared around the corner, carrying the posture of a man who had only just remembered there was supposed to be company. He wore a sagging grey sweatshirt with the logo of Andy’s old Little League team, with the sleeves rolled up. His eyes were bright and direct as ever.

Jim came over and drew Andy into an embrace, patting his back with a force that bordered on therapeutic. He said, “Son,” and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, turned to Erin. “Erin,” he said, offering her a hand. His grip was steady, and he didn’t so much as blink at her skin, her chest, or her state of undress. “Glad to see you again. It’s been a while, huh?”

Erin shook his hand, and Andy could see her shoulders unclench by a degree. “Hi, Mr. Cooper. Thanks for having me.”

The kitchen was stifling after the air outside. Erin, who’d barely touched the threshold in six years, had the look of someone walking through their own dream. She wasn’t staring at the family photos or the outdated calendar, but at the granular details—crayon marks on the trim, the dented rim of a copper pan, the way the sunlight stuttered through the wavy old glass above the sink. She let her gaze bounce around the room for a good ten seconds before landing back on Andy’s mother, who was already fishing through the canisters for a bag of tea. She inhaled once, deeply, then exhaled just as slow.

Andy’s mom set the kettle to boil and gave Erin a smile that was more welcome than scrutiny. “Do you still like the black currant tea?” she asked, as if it hadn’t been nearly a decade since she last made it for her. She pulled a box from the shelf that looked untouched since the last time, dusted it with an expert flick, and offered the choice without a hint of irony.

“Honestly, yes,” Erin said, and Andy could hear the effort she was putting into sounding normal. “I can’t find that kind anymore. It’s all herbal now, or some kind of decaf.”

Andy’s mom laughed softly and dropped a bag into Erin’s mug. “That’s because nobody except you drank it.” The older woman measured out the sugar before Erin could ask, then set the canister down and wiped her hands. “And you,” she said, turning to Andy, “what can I get you?”

Andy glanced at Erin, then shook his head. “I’m good, thanks.”

Carol put her hands on her hips and gave him a look straight out of his childhood. Andy wondered, not for the first time, whether anything he had ever done had truly surprised her. “Are you sure?” she said. “I’ve got that coffee you used to like, the one with the giraffe on the label.”

Andy opened his mouth to say no again, but she was already reaching for a third mug, and there wasn’t a version of this conversation where he won it.

From his left, Andy’s father grunted and took a mug from the drying rack. “He hasn’t changed,” he said, “he still doesn’t know how to say thank you when it counts.” He winked at Erin, and she managed a nervous smile in return.

Andy’s mom poured tea for all three of them, then set the kettle back on the stove, the bottom ringing out as it met the burner. She pulled out a fourth mug and filled it with coffee, black, for her husband. She slid the mug to the stool beside Erin, a wordless invitation, and then took her own seat at the island’s head.

They were all arranged around the kitchen island now, Andy at one end, Erin and Andy’s mom facing each other, Andy’s dad off to the side but still in orbit. Erin cradled her mug with both hands, the heat standing out in a faint cloud against her green skin. Andy watched her try to find comfort in the routine, but he could see the tremor along her knuckles, as though she might bolt if the wrong word was said.

Andy’s mother was first to breach the small talk. “You remember where everything is?” she asked, tone feather-light. “Or do you need a tour?”

Erin let out a breath she’d been holding. “No tour,” she said, “unless you’ve moved the basement.” She hesitated, then: “It’s all exactly how I remembered.”

The older woman’s smile went sly. “Except the toaster,” she said, with a sidelong glance at her husband. “It’s new, but it’s garbage. He picked it out.”

Jim grunted, unoffended. “It is an upgrade. Now it burns both sides at once.” He sipped his coffee.

The older woman rolled her eyes and set a canister on the island. “Erin, sweetheart, you want sugar, or are you off it, too?”

“Sugar,” Erin said. “I keep thinking I’ll quit, but it never sticks.”

Andy’s mom measured out a scoop and grinned. “You used to sneak it into the tea when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

Erin’s face went a little pine green. “That’s because you always said sugar ruined good tea, and I was trying not to disappoint you.”

“You never disappointed me,” Andy’s mom said, too quick and too flat for it to be routine. She set the tea in front of Erin, took the stool beside her, and looked directly at her face. “So. How long has it been?”

Erin hesitated, then looked at Andy. He shrugged, as if to say it was up to her. “Longer than anyone wants to say out loud,” Erin answered.

Andy’s mom pursed her lips. “That’s not an answer.”

Erin cracked, a real laugh this time. “Six years,” she said. “Give or take a stack of Christmas cards you sent and I never answered.”

Andy’s mom shrugged. She reached for her own cup, then looked at Erin again, softer. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

Erin opened her mouth, maybe to say thanks, maybe to say nothing. Instead she reached for her tea and held it with both hands, eyes fixed on the curl of steam.

Andy watched this from the far side of the island. He expected awkwardness, or at least a stage-managed version of it—the way most families would treat a naked, plant-person fiancée with a politeness just sharp enough to make it clear what was wrong with the picture. Instead, it felt exactly like every winter break, every Thanksgiving, every long, slow evening that ever happened in this kitchen. The only difference was Erin, who radiated equal parts relief and nervous energy, and the way his mother treated her as if nothing about her had ever changed.

Andy’s father was the first to break the spell. “So, Erin,” he said, “are you still a conservation specialist?”

Erin blinked. “I am. Still with Green River.”

Andy’s father leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his stomach. “How’s work treating you?” he asked Erin, tone as even as if she were the neighbor’s daughter who’d gone away for a semester and come back looking radically different.

“It’s busy,” Erin said. “We’ve got a grant to restore a wetland out by Rockford. It’s supposed to be a two-year project, but I think the board is going to extend it.” She looked up, expecting to find skepticism or polite boredom, but Andy’s dad was listening with the same steady intensity that used to make her nervous when she was younger. She glanced at Andy for half a second—he offered no help, just an encouraging tilt of his head—and then settled her gaze on Carol instead. “You’d like it. There’s always some kind of bird out there.”

Andy’s mother grinned, shoulders relaxing just a little. “You always said you hated birds.”

“Not all of them,” Erin said, caught off guard by how quickly the old dynamic slotted itself back together. “Just starlings. They’re invasive, and I can’t stand how they take over everything.” She paused for a second, long enough for the awkwardness to have crept in, then added, “I still feed them, though. I guess I feel bad for them, even if I shouldn’t.”

Jim sipped his coffee with the air of a man who had known this about her for ages. “They remember that kind of thing,” he said, deadpan. “Birds hold a grudge.”

Andy’s mother rolled her eyes at him the way she always did, then looked at Andy. “Do you want something to eat?” she asked, suddenly practical again. “I’ve got lunch stuff, or I could throw in a pizza.”

“I’m fine,” Andy said. “We ate on the way.”

Erin shook her head immediately, so fast Andy almost missed it. “We didn’t, actually. He’s being polite. I could eat, though.” She realized too late how that sounded, and her face went a shade deeper, but Carol only smiled.

The older woman’s smile turned a little sly. “Pregnant, right?” she said.

The mug nearly slipped from Erin’s hand. Andy saw the way her knuckles went pale, and he had to fight not to spill his own coffee in sympathy.

“How did you—?” Erin started, but Andy’s mother just shrugged.

“You walked in here glowing like a cartoon character, and you’re drinking tea instead of coffee. Also, Laura and Andy told us about it this morning, and we’re not yet that old.” Carol’s voice was lightly teasing, but the kindness in her eyes landed like a weighted blanket over the whole kitchen.

Jim made a noise in his throat, halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Congratulations,” he said, looking at Erin with a smile that was as close to pride as she’d ever seen on him.

Erin opened her mouth, found nothing, and gave up. She nodded, jaw tight.

Andy’s mother reached out and set her hand on top of Erin’s, just for a second. “I’m happy for you,” she said, and her voice was as unadorned as the countertop, but it stayed in the air like a benediction.

A silence grew, but it was a good one. Not awkward, just full—like the hush right after a song ends, when no one in the audience wants to break whatever spell was made.

Erin broke it first. “I’m sorry I didn’t call,” she said quietly. “I wanted to, but it felt like—” She trailed off, unsure whether she was allowed to finish the sentence.

Andy’s mom shook her head, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to explain. You’re here, that’s enough.”

A minute passed, full of the sound of the heater and the fridge’s old compressor cycling on and off.

The heater kicked on again, and the old fridge let out a whine, as if to fill the last remaining gaps in the conversation. Andy watched Erin turn her mug between her hands, her eyes glassy for a second before she blinked and covered it with a smile. “It’s wild being here,” she said. “I feel like I could close my eyes and be twenty-three again. Nothing’s changed.”

“Some things have,” Andy’s mother replied, watching her over the rim of her mug. “But not the important stuff.” She refilled the mugs without asking, her hands working by memory.

Andy’s attention was on Erin. She’d started the afternoon with all the brash confidence in the world, but now she sat with her hands folded over the mug, eyes on the table, as if she had to double-check every word before it left her mouth.

Andy’s dad cleared his throat, looking for a way in. “So, Erin,” he said, “Carol tells me there’s a wedding on the calendar. Are congratulations in order, or is this all just rumor and hype?”

Andy waited for Erin to field it.

Erin laughed, this time for real. “It’s real. It’s in two days.” She looked at Andy, then back to Jim. “It’s more complicated than just one wedding, though.”

Andy’s dad nodded, as if he’d been expecting the answer. “How so?” He said it with a curiosity that felt genuine. This was, after all, a man who’d once spent two hours at a backyard barbecue trying to understand the difference between polyamory and an open marriage, and who never once used either term with a sneer.

Andy’s mom grinned, openly delighted. “She means the other women,” she said.

Erin blinked, thrown for a loop. “You already know?”

Andy’s mother shrugged, unbothered. “Laura explained everything, the last time she and Andy visited. The seven brides, the other six who aren’t there yet, and the fact that three of you are pregnant. I started a spreadsheet so I wouldn’t lose track.”

Erin stared at her. “You… you started a spreadsheet?”

Andy’s mom met her look, totally unembarrassed. “Of course I did. What else do you do when you find out your son is marrying seven women at once? There’s going to be a lot of birthdays to keep straight.” She nudged the mug closer. “You’re not the only one who likes a system, Erin.”

There was a pause. Erin looked at Andy, who shrugged, caught.

“Last time I was here,” Andy said, “Laura and I told them the whole story. I figured it would be less of a shock if they heard it from us.”

Erin blinked, then laughed, the tension leaking out of her. “This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever said out loud,” she told Carol, “but it makes me feel better, knowing you already knew. I was worried I’d have to try and explain it, and I still don’t know if I could.”

The older woman’s look softened. She reached across and put her hand on Erin’s forearm. “That’s what families are for. Knowing you before you’re ready to say it out loud.”

Erin’s eyes watered, and she blinked hard.

Andy’s mom, ever practical, turned the moment. “How are you feeling, honestly? The pregnancy, everything else. I remember the first trimester with Andy was the worst part.”

Erin smiled, grateful for the pivot. “I’m okay. No symptoms, so far. And…” She hesitated. “Some days it’s hard to believe it’s even happening.”

Carol nodded, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s normal. I thought I’d made the whole thing up until the night they handed Andy to me and he screamed so loud half the floor heard him.” She sipped her tea. “You don’t have to believe it. They’ll make you.”

Andy’s father added, “No one believes it’s real until you hold the baby. Not even the dad.”

Andy winced, and Erin caught the look and laughed. Andy’s mom shot the dad a look. “That’s not as reassuring as you think.”

He shrugged, not apologizing.

Andy tried to change the subject. “How are you feeling about all of it, Mom? I mean, the… grandchildren explosion.”

Andy’s mom actually took a second to answer. She laced her fingers around her mug and looked at Erin before she spoke. “We’d stopped expecting any, honestly. Watching you go through your twenties, never seriously dating, I think we just assumed it would be us and maybe a cat someday. Now I have no idea how many grandchildren are coming, but I can’t wait to meet every one of them.” She smiled, a little sad and a lot proud. “It’s overwhelming, but in a good way.”

Erin made a sound, almost like a sob, but covered it with a laugh.

Andy’s father cleared his throat. “We ordered a bigger table this morning,” he said. “About twenty minutes after Andy and Laura left.”

Andy stared at him. “You—what?”

“Seats fourteen. Extendable up to twenty.” He lifted his mug. “Free shipping. Your mother found it. I just put in the card number.”

Andy’s mom didn’t look remotely embarrassed. “It was on sale,” she said, to no one in particular.

Erin pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t mean to be—” and couldn’t finish it.

Andy cleared his throat. “There’s, uh.” He set his mug down. “There’s one more thing I should probably mention.”

Both of his parents looked at him.

“Laura’s pregnant too.”

The kitchen went quiet. His mother put down her tea. His father stopped mid-sip.

Then his mother made a sound he hadn’t heard from her since he was small—something between a laugh and a cry that she tried to turn into a cough and failed completely. She set her mug down very carefully, as if she needed her hands free for whatever came next. His father made a sound that wasn’t quite a word.

Andy’s mother pressed both palms flat on the counter and looked at the ceiling for a moment, and when she looked back down her eyes were bright. “Laura,” she said first, like the name needed saying before anything else could be. Then, “Andy,” and that was all she said, but she crossed the kitchen and put both arms around him, and he felt her exhale against his shoulder like she’d been holding it for sixteen years, not just since breakfast.

He understood, without her having to spell it out, what she was actually crying about. Not just a grandchild. Not just one more row for the spreadsheet. She was crying about the girl they’d once tried to file paperwork to keep, the girl she and Andy’s father had quietly assumed—back before Andy was old enough to know they were assuming anything—would end up exactly here, married into this family instead of merely loved by it, right up until the night that future got taken from all of them for sixteen years. She was crying because even the worst night this family had ever endured, now turned out not to be permanent after all.

His father stood up, which he rarely did for anything short of a Bears touchdown, and put a hand on the back of Andy’s neck, gripping a beat longer than the gesture usually lasted. “Good,” he said, which was the most Jim Cooper thing he could have said, and somehow it landed exactly right.

His mother let go, turned away, and spent a moment with her back to the room. When she turned back she was composed, or close enough. She picked up her mug. Erin was watching her with wide eyes. “I need to add a row,” Andy’s mom said, wiping her eye with the back of her wrist.

Andy waited until the moment settled. “And one of the other women—Riley—she… she has a baby. From her late husband. He’s two months old.”

His father sat back down.

His mother looked at the ceiling briefly, then at her husband, then at Andy. “Does the spreadsheet,” she said, with great dignity, “need its own spreadsheet?”

“Sorry,” Andy said. “I know it’s a lot to land on you in one sitting.”

His father reached over and topped off his own coffee without a word.

The older woman, ever the host, returned to her task. “Do you know yet what you’re having?” she asked Erin.

Erin nodded. “Twins. One of each.”

Andy’s mother went still, hands cupped around her mug. “Is that confirmed, or are you guessing?”

Erin smiled, the first real smile of the afternoon. “Confirmed. The OB/GYN is a friend—her name’s Dinah, she’s…” Erin trailed off, then shrugged. “She’s very good. Said we know for sure by now.”

Andy’s mother looked at her husband. He lifted his eyebrows, as if to say, Well, you did ask.

The older woman said, “Congratulations, again. That’s going to be a full house.”

Andy said, “We haven’t started on names yet.”

His father grinned. “You’ve got time. You’re not running a farm, you don’t have to get creative until you run out of the usual ones.”

Andy’s mother looked at Erin. “When you pick, just let us know. I’ll update the spreadsheet.”

Erin’s face went soft at the edges. “I promise.”

The older woman got up, moved to the freezer. “Let me see what I can make for dinner. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

---

Andy’s mother had the freezer door open and was narrating, half to herself and half to Erin: “I can do chicken, or there’s sausage, or we could just have pasta if you’re tired. I know you’re not supposed to eat lunch meat—”

“Really, you don’t have to make anything,” Erin said, not quite joking. “It’s fine if you just want to set out cheese and crackers. I’m not picky.”

Andy’s mother pulled a bag of something, held it up, then set it back. “I want to make a real dinner. It’s not every day we have company.”

Andy was watching the exchange, smiling into his tea, when it happened.

A spike of shock, sharp as cold water, lanced through him. It came with no warning and no buildup, just a hard wall of emotion that turned everything inside out. For half a second he couldn’t hear what either of the women in the kitchen were saying. His vision blurred at the edges and then tunneled to gray.

He set the mug down, and it hit the counter hard enough to slop tea over the rim.

Andy’s mother looked over, instantly attentive. “You okay, honey?”

Andy didn’t trust his voice. “I’m fine,” he said, but it sounded hollow, even to him. “Just—bathroom. Sorry.”

He left the kitchen with his eyes on the floor, made it down the hall and into the bathroom, and locked the door behind him. The old mirror was just as warped as ever. He got both hands on the edge of the sink and hung on.

It didn't go away. The shock burned off and something bigger came up underneath it: horror, blooming and spreading, turning the bones of his arms to ice. And it kept climbing. Whatever had hit her was still arriving, still getting bigger while she looked at it, and there was nothing he could do but stand in a bathroom in Warrenville and take delivery.

He had felt her near this level exactly once. The footbridge, sixteen years ago, when whatever Myra had told her had done its job, and Laura’s anger and hurt reverberated through the bond hard enough to put him on the road to the river. This was a shade under that. Not much of one.

The difference was that he had been inside that one. It had been about him, in the worst possible way, and that had at least given him somewhere to stand and something to run toward.

There was nothing of him in this. He turned it over and could not find an edge anywhere with his name on it.

Then it changed under him, and he had to hold the sink to stay upright. The horror stopped climbing and began to settle, and what came up underneath was heavier and slower and did not move at all. Shame. Thick enough that he could feel her sitting down inside it.

And then grief, arriving last.

That was the part that took his legs out from under him. Grief came last when somebody had finished understanding something.

She had not been hurt. She had not been frightened by something that would pass by morning. Somebody had told her something, or she had found something, and she believed it, and she was already living on the far side of it. And she was ashamed, which meant that whatever it was, she had decided some part of it belonged to her.

His hands were shaking against the porcelain. He made himself think it through, because the alternative was standing there feeling it.

Sam first, because Sam was the only part of this that was solid. Watchtower did not need a signal from him. Whatever had gone through Laura had gone through Sam in the same instant, and Sam was in the resort, and Sam had a keycard for the Suite. If Laura was up there, Sam was probably already at that door. That was not a hope. Distress like that… Sam wouldn’t ignore it.

Then the part he wanted to argue with. Even if he walked out of the bathroom right now, the elevator was in Chicago, and Chicago was an hour away, and past that there was a world to cross. Sam would be sitting with her before he was out of Warrenville. Leaving now would not put him beside her one minute sooner. It would only put him there later and in worse shape.

And Laura had never wanted him in the first hour. Not once, not since they were children. She needed the room first. She used to tell him that, both as a child and in the alternate memories he now had, and he had listened at the time and believed her. If he came through that door before she was ready for it, he would not be helping her. He would be one more thing she had to manage.

The last of it was Erin, and it was the piece he liked least. She had spent six years not walking up that driveway and had walked up it today, and she was thirty feet away in his mother's kitchen being handed a family. There was no version of leaving he could explain to her. There was no way to give the afternoon back either. Tomorrow was the parties. The day after was the wedding. This was all there was.

So he stayed. He made the decision standing at that sink with his hands shaking, and he made it on purpose, and it did not make him feel one degree better about any of it.

He ran the water and put his face into it. He stayed bent over the sink until his breathing evened out, and then longer, because the first version of his face in that mirror was not going to survive contact with his mother.

When he finally straightened up and worked his expression into something a person could look at, he opened the door and went back to the kitchen like nothing had happened.

---

Dinner was chicken, not from the freezer after all, but roasted with rosemary and lemons Carol swore were the secret to making it taste like summer even in January. Erin tried to argue her into something simple, but Andy’s mother set her jaw and called it a “proper meal,” and that was the end of it.

Andy’s father set the table without needing direction, laying out the plates, forks, and napkins as if he’d always known how to do it. He reached for the “good” china and his wife made a noise, slapped the back of his hand with a dish towel, and said, “We’re not putting out the company dishes for Andy. He’ll just break them.”

Andy’s father grinned and swapped in the old stoneware, the kind with one chipped edge on every plate. Andy, watching, caught the look that passed between his parents—a kind of amusement at the predictability of each other—and felt something solid settle in his chest.

He sat down at the table and tried to be a normal human again. It did not take. Laura was still there, underneath everything, a low flat weight that had stopped moving and showed no sign of going anywhere, and every few minutes he found himself checking it the way you check a tooth. Erin took the chair beside him and set her hand on his thigh under the table, and he had no idea whether she had noticed anything or whether she just did that now.

They started with salad and bread. The conversation orbited safely at first: sports, the weather, what Andy was up to these days. But once the main dish was on the table, Andy’s dad turned to Erin and said, “So, what’s it like, doing the work you do? Is it all wading boots and chasing ducks, or is there actually math involved?”

Erin laughed. “I wish it was more chasing ducks, but it’s mostly writing grant proposals and fighting with property owners about invasive species. The wading boots are just to keep up appearances. Half the time, I don’t even need them anymore.” She said it like a joke, but Andy saw the little flicker of pride in her face.

Andy’s dad nodded, chewing, giving her his full attention. “Sounds like you’re doing what you always wanted,” he said. “Not everyone gets to say that.”

Erin hesitated, then said, “I got lucky.” She glanced at Andy, then back to the older man. “You can spend a lot of years thinking you’re supposed to want one thing and then wake up and find you actually want something completely different.” She looked at Andy’s mother. “You ever have that happen to you?”

Andy’s mom snorted. “Every day for forty years. It’s why I have the freezer full of bread. Sometimes I wake up and decide I’ll eat nothing but spinach for a month. Never works.” She forked another bite of chicken, then pivoted: “Are you doing your own flowers for the wedding?”

Erin blinked, then shrugged. “I don’t think so. That’s more Liesa’s thing.”

Andy’s mom perked up. “Liesa? Andy’s Liesa? From college?”

“She’s—” Erin paused, sorting out the best version of the story. “Yes, that Liesa. She and Sam, one of the other women—” She stopped, then just smiled. “It’s complicated. But Liesa is the one who’s running the show.”

The older woman’s eyes went sparkly. “But she’s not one of the brides, is she?”

Erin shook her head. “No, but she’s as much a part of everything as anyone. She… she’s with Andy, too. And she and Sam have this thing—”

“Like a couple?” Andy’s mom said, delighted.

“Like a couple,” Erin confirmed, and saw no reason to add more.

Andy’s mother nodded, deeply satisfied. “I’m so happy for Sam. That girl deserves good things. That’s nice.”

Andy’s father, who’d been quiet for a stretch, looked at Andy and said, “How does it work, all of you together? Is there, I don’t know, a schedule, or does everyone just get along?”

Andy nearly choked on a piece of bread, but Erin answered before he had to. “It’s a circus. But everyone is a volunteer, and that makes it easier.” She grinned. “Andy’s the ringmaster, but the animals run the show.”

Andy’s dad let out a genuine laugh. “Sounds like you’re getting the worse end of the deal, son.”

Andy’s mom asked, “Is it true Arabella is hosting the ceremony? I’ve never been to a wedding on a resort island before.”

Andy nodded, hoping that would be enough. “She’s making it official. We’re just hoping she doesn’t decide to add her own special effects.”

Andy’s mom set down her fork, thoughtful. “I’m actually really looking forward to it. Arabella told us we’d be taken care of and not to worry about anything.”

Erin, who’d picked up on every detail of the conversation so far, said, “Wait. She told you, directly?”

The older woman nodded, not at all perturbed. “She came by with a whole packet, itinerary and everything. Even gave me a list of what to pack for the trip.” She shrugged. “I stopped asking how anything is possible with her after the second sentence.”

Andy met Erin’s eyes, and saw the gears turning.

Andy’s dad asked, “You ever nervous about this stuff, Andy? Or do you just get used to it?”

Andy took longer to answer than the question deserved. “No,” he said. “You don’t get used to it.” He heard how that landed and pulled it back. “I mean, I think if you stop being nervous, that’s when you’re in trouble.” He looked at Erin, mostly so he could look somewhere. “But I trust the people involved. Especially her.”

Erin squeezed his leg, just once.

Andy’s mom finished her wine and poured herself a little more, then said, “Besides you and Laura, I’ve decided in advance to like all five of the other brides. Ah, and all six of the girlfriends. I’m not going to change my mind unless someone does something really unthinkable, like bringing raisins to a potluck.”

Erin smiled, and this time it was pure relief. “That’s probably the most reassuring thing I’ve heard all week,” she said, and Andy knew she meant it.

For a while, the talk drifted into logistics: the seating chart, what time the ceremony actually started, whether the weather would mess up the event. Andy answered what he actually knew and let the rest go over him, letting the sound of his family being itself do the hard work of keeping him upright.

After dinner, while Andy’s mom and Erin fussed over the plates, Andy’s dad caught Andy as he was reaching for the ice cream.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Can I run something by you?”

Andy shrugged, always a little weirded out by serious talks with his dad, but open.

The older man looked at the table, then at his son. “I was thinking. Laura doesn’t have anyone to walk her down the aisle. Would it be weird if I offered? Or would that be… I don’t know, out of place?”

Andy took a second, and the second went badly.

His father was offering because Laura had nobody. That was the whole of the reason, and it sat there in the kitchen light like a thing you could pick up. She had no father to walk her down an aisle because the man who fathered her had done what he had done to her mother, and then to Myra's mother, and then to Riley's. Sarah was sixteen years into the same chair. And his own dad, who had a bad knee and had never in his life had a complicated thought about who deserved what, had stood in the hallway working up the nerve to offer to fill it.

And she was somewhere on the other side of a world right now, in pieces, with something in her hands that Andy could not see.

"I don't know,” Andy said. His voice came out wrong and he cleared his throat. “I think she might. I think it might be the best thing anybody's put in front of her all week.” He looked at the freezer handle rather than at his father. “I'll ask her tonight.”

Jim nodded, not smiling, but satisfied. “It's not about me, you know. I just want the day to be good for her.”

“I know.”

Jim looked like he wanted to say something else, then clapped Andy on the back hard enough to nearly put him into the open freezer, and went off toward the den and the second half of the game.

Andy stayed in the hallway a while after he'd gone.

I'll ask her tonight. He had said it as though tonight were a normal thing that was going to happen, as though he would walk into the Suite and find her reading, and sit down on the end of the bed, and tell her a nice thing his father had said. He had no idea what he was going to walk into. He had a shape with no content in it and eight hours of company still to get through, and every minute he stood here was a minute she had already been living on the other side of whatever it was.

He could hear his mother and Erin in the kitchen, laughing about something, one of them running the tap.

He gave it another few seconds. Then he fixed his face and went back in.