The Rehearsal Dinner
Page 10
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He took a deep breath and focused properly on Anne. Then he looked away so people wouldn’t catch on. “Now, though, I know it can happen between two people. And it doesn’t have to make sense because it’s not about logic. And it doesn’t have to have good timing because forever is like infinity, without beginning or end. And it doesn’t have to be defined because truth is like faith—it just is.”
Abruptly, Danny realized he was talking to Anne instead of the intendeds, so he got himself back on track and raised his glass. “So, let’s toast to Moose and Deandra. I can’t think of a better guy to have my back, and I wish the both of you the best of luck.” Because they were going to need it. “And happiness, too.”
“To Moose and Deandra,” a number of others chimed in lackadaisically.
“To a wedding night on all fours,” one of the frat boys shouted.
“Is that Moose or Deandra you’re talkin’ ’bout!” another of the drunks added.
As Danny sat back down, he was aware of the bride shooting daggers in the direction of the Barstool Sports peanut gallery—and he was willing to bet Moose was going to catch another round of pissed off from her.
But that wasn’t his problem. All he cared about was Anne.
Tonight was the night. He was going to tell her how he felt. One way or another . . . he was going to lay his cards on the table and pray she felt the same.
Or at least didn’t slam the proverbial door in his face.
Abruptly, Danny realized he was talking to Anne instead of the intendeds, so he got himself back on track and raised his glass. “So, let’s toast to Moose and Deandra. I can’t think of a better guy to have my back, and I wish the both of you the best of luck.” Because they were going to need it. “And happiness, too.”
“To Moose and Deandra,” a number of others chimed in lackadaisically.
“To a wedding night on all fours,” one of the frat boys shouted.
“Is that Moose or Deandra you’re talkin’ ’bout!” another of the drunks added.
As Danny sat back down, he was aware of the bride shooting daggers in the direction of the Barstool Sports peanut gallery—and he was willing to bet Moose was going to catch another round of pissed off from her.
But that wasn’t his problem. All he cared about was Anne.
Tonight was the night. He was going to tell her how he felt. One way or another . . . he was going to lay his cards on the table and pray she felt the same.
Or at least didn’t slam the proverbial door in his face.
