“Congratu-fucking-lations, brother,” I tell Lachlan, grabbing his meaty shoulder and giving it a rather rough squeeze. I’m beaming at him, conscious of my all-too-wide grin in his face, but I’m happier than I’ve been in a while. Maybe it’s the real champagne I had with our mum before Lachlan and his girlfriend came over.
Wait. Not girlfriend.
Kayla is his fiancé now. And if you ask me, it’s about time.
Lachlan nods, smiling wanly in acute embarrassment, which only makes me want to embarrass him more. That’s the job of an older brother, after all, and since our family adopted him when I was out of high school, I missed out on those important torture years of childhood that most siblings experience.
My mum comes over and pours the non-champagne into our glasses, then into Kayla’s, who is standing dutifully at Lachlan’s side. As usual, she’s hanging on to Lachlan in some way—hand at the small of his back—and her cheeks are flushed with emotion. I almost wish she would cry so I could poke fun at her later. She’s such a feisty, smart-mouthed girl that a little vulnerable emotion would be wonderful to exploit.
“Here’s to Lachlan and the future Mrs. McGregor,” my mum says, raising her glass to the happy couple. Before she’s about to clink the glasses, she eyes my father, who is standing at the edge of the room, poised to take a picture. He’s been poised for the last few minutes. “Well, hurry Donald and get over here.”
“Right,” he says, snapping one more photo of us with glasses in the air, and then comes hurrying over. She hands him his glass and we all clink them together.
“Welcome to the family, Kayla,” I tell her sincerely. I glance quickly at Lachlan before I add, “I’ve been bugging him from day one to propose to you, you know. Can’t believe it took him so long, especially with a girl like you.”
The permanent line between Lachlan’s brow deepens, his jaw tense. I think I’m the only person alive that can piss him off and not get scared of him. My brother is a giant beast of a man, all beard and muscle and tattoos, and has most recently become the captain of the Edinburgh Rugby team. You don’t want to mess with him, unless your name is Brigs McGregor.
“Brigs,” my mother admonishes.
“Oh, I know,” Kayla says smoothly before taking a sip of her drink. “I’d be lying if I hadn’t been leaving out my rings on the dresser, just so it would be easier for him to get the right size.”
“Atta girl,” I tell her, and clink her glass again, and though I’m suddenly hit by a fleeting memory, about picking out a ring for Miranda, I swallow it down with the bubbles. That’s how I’ve learned to deal with the past—you acknowledge it and move on.
Move on.
Yesterday we were all at the rugby match between Edinburgh and Munster, cheering our arses off. Of course we weren’t just there for Lachlan. He had told us a few weeks before that he was going to propose during the game, and it would be nice to have the family there. Even though I just started teaching last week, I flew up from London to Edinburgh on Friday night.
Naturally it was hard for me to keep my mouth shut about the event, but I’m glad I did because it made the moment even greater, especially when Lachlan briefly buggered the proposal part up. It still ended up being romantic as hell.
“This is so exciting,” my mum squeals. I don’t think I’ve seen her squeal in a long time. She places her glass on the coffee table and claps her hands together, her bracelets jangling. “Have you given any thought to where the wedding is going to be? When? Oh and the dress. Kayla, darling, you’re going to look so beautiful.”
I want to keep the grin on my face. I really do. But it’s starting to falter.
Move on, move on, move on.
The memories of my mother and Miranda going dress shopping. How long they took—months—before they found the perfect one. How Miranda squirreled that dress home, hiding it in the closet and forbidding me to look at it.
I kept my word. I did. And on our wedding day, she really did take my breath away.
I wish that memory could be pure. I wish that I could grieve like any normal man would. Feel the sorrow and not the shame.
But all I feel is shame. All I feel is shame.
All my fault.
The thought races through my head, lightning on the brain.
All my fault.
I close my eyes and breathe in slowly through my nose, remembering what my therapist had taught me.
Move on, move on, move on.
It wasn’t my fault.
“Brigs?” I hear my father say, and I open my eyes to see him peering at me curiously. He gives me a quick, encouraging smile. “Are you all right?” He says this in a low, hushed voice, and for that I’m grateful. My mother and Kayla are talking wedding plans, and they haven’t noticed.
Lachlan, on the other hand, is watching me. He knows my triggers just as I know his. But while we can drink alcohol-free champagne for his sake, we can’t ignore fucking life for mine. We can’t pretend that love and marriage and babies don’t happen, just because all of mine were taken away.
All my fault.
I exhale and paste on a smile. “I’m fine,” I say to my father. “Guess I’m a wee bit stressed about classes tomorrow. This will be the first real week of school. The first one never counts for anything. Everyone’s lost or hung over.”
He gives a little laugh. “Yes, I remember those days.” He finishes the champagne and checks his watch, managing to spill leftover droplets on the carpet as he turns his wrist. “What time is your flight tonight?”