HE NEXT DAY AT ONE-THIRTY in the afternoon, I give my dress I final tug. “Do I look ridiculous?”

Elaina steps back and examines me critically. “You look hot, bambino. This is your color.”

“Pink?” I ask incredulously. “Pink?”

Olivia bursts through the bedroom door. “Oh, Auntie, you look so pretty!” she breathes. “Like Cruella DeVille!”

I shoot my niece a sharp look. “Thanks, Livvie. That’s definitely what I was going for.”

“It’s your hair,” Olivia explains. “It’s black-and-white, like Cruella’s.”

“It’s not black-and-white,” I tell my six-year-old niece with thinly veiled patience. “I have one or two gray hairs. My hair is black.”

“Actually, you do have kind of a streak going on here,” Elaina says, examining my head.

I slap her hand away. “Where are the rest of the girls?”

All of us bridesmaids—that is, my nieces and me—are wearing pink. A deep rose for me, pale pink for the girls. Mom, to my surprise, is wearing a red dress. She looks fabulous. Her cheeks glow, her blue eyes snap with excitement, and any bitterness or sorrow she’s been hiding seems to have evaporated with my father’s grand gesture.

No males are allowed at the house; it’s just us womenfolk as we dress and curl and spray and brush. The Starahs are in charge of their daughters, and I help buckle little shoes and zip little zippers. My brothers, father and nephews—and of course, Harry—will meet us at the church.

After the photographer torments us with an hour and a half of picture-taking, we spend several years (or so it seems) discussing who will ride with whom to the Unitarian church. “I’m just gonna walk,” I threaten. “It’ll be faster than this conversation.”

But it’s raining out, so my threats are empty.

Finally, we clamber into the minivans and cars and head off. Mom, Elaina and I are alone in Mom’s Chrysler, me chauffeuring while the two of them sit in the back.

“You look beautiful, Mamí,” Elaina says, fixing a stray curl behind Mom’s ear.

“Did Chastity tell you she dumped Ryan?” Mom says mildly.

Elaina sighs. “Yes. Too bad about that ring. Could’ve sent my baby through college.”

I grin in the rearview mirror. “Well, you could always finish divorcing Mark and marry Ryan yourself, Lainey.”

“You know very well I’m not divorcing Mark,” she says. “In fact, I might as well tell you, I’m pregnant.”

The car swerves to the right as Mom and I shriek. “Lainey! That’s wonderful!”

She blushes. “Yeah, well, he’s a new man and all that, you know? So maybe a girl this time.”

Mom is dabbing tears. “I’m so happy, Elaina, sweetheart,” she says, hugging Lainey tight.

I am, too, and if a flame of envy is dancing in my heart, well, I’m pretty used to it.

“Oh, look, there’s the church!” Mom exclaims. “This is so exciting! I barely remember marrying Mike, I was so sick with Jack.”

“Jack’s a bastard? I knew it,” I comment. Sure, we kids did the math, but Mom and Dad never admitted it. They insisted that Jack (weighing in a nine pounds, twelve ounces) came two months early.

Men in suits wait for us, faces obscured in a sea of umbrellas. Some, no doubt, are my brothers. And Trevor. And Dad.

Jack helps me out of the car, as I am awkward in my long dress. “Lucky, why are you wearing a dress?” he asks. I flip him off cheerfully. “Sorry, Chas,” he amends, ushering me inside. “You clean up nice.”

“Thanks, Jack. How’s Dad?” I glance around. Dad is talking to Matt. Angela waves to me from a pew.

“Dad is eerily fine,” Jack answers.

“Chas, can you load this film for me?” Lucky asks. “I’m all thumbs.”

“Yet you defuse bombs for a living. How reassuring.” I take the proffered camera and do as I’m told.

Lucky laughs. “Put a dress on her and she’s all high and mighty. I like you better when you’re one of the guys.”

“Join the club,” I murmur, handing his camera back to him. “Here.”

“Hey, Chastity.”

I turn around. “Hi, Trevor.” I bite my lip. “You look very handsome.” And tired, and a little sad.

He smiles, but his eyes don’t join in. “You…that’s a nice dress.” He closes his eyes briefly, acknowledging the lameness of his compliment.

“Thanks,” I say, forgiving him.

He clears his throat. “Chastity, what’s your dad doing here?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear? He’s giving away the bride,” I say, forcing a smile.

His eyebrows bounce up in surprise. “Are you kidding me?” he asks too loudly.

“Trev! Over here, bud,” Mark calls from a front pew. Trevor hesitates.

“Go ahead,” I say. “I have bridesmaidy things to do.”

Still looking stunned, he walks toward the front of the church, glancing back at me. I shrug.

Mom bustles in behind me. “There you are!” she says, as if I were hiding. “Where’s your father?”

“Right here, Betty. Can I be the first to kiss the bride?” Dad smooches her cheek. “Don’t you look gorgeous,” he says, and he seems to mean it. He’s all Cary Grant today, smiling and debonair, good grace and manners. Mom grins up at him.

Seeing them smiling moonily at each other, I wait. Wait for Mom’s smile to fade in abrupt realization. Wait for her to make the announcement. To call it off. Wait for her to glance down the aisle at Harry, five foot seven—too old for her, too chubby—and then stare at my tall and handsome, strong and heroic father and realize that no one will ever fill Mike O’Neill’s shoes. To declare to everyone that true love has conquered, and she and Dad will stay together, happier than ever, till the day they die.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she adjusts my dad’s pin, a Maltese cross, the symbol of firefighters. Then she checks to see that all her granddaughters are in place, and they are, a shimmering mob of creamy pink satin. Sarah nods at the choir loft and walks down the aisle to where Jack and their boys are sitting. The organ starts playing, and the girls begin their march. First Sophie, strewing pink rose petals, then Olivia, her coppery curls bouncing. Then comes Annie, who is scowling at Luke as he tries to take her picture. Claire, holding baby Jenny, comes last. When they’re all seated in the front pews with their brothers and parents, it’s my turn.

I take one more look at my parents, together for the last time, arm in arm, smiling. Do it, Mom, I will her. She smiles at me as if she’s reading my mind. Being Mom, she probably is.

“Go on, honey,” she whispers.

So I do. Heart aching, I do.

Trevor is watching me as I make my way down the aisle. I hope I’m smiling, but I bet I’m not. I can’t seem to feel my face, actually. Trev looks…odd. Bleak. The way I feel.

Then I’m past him, already at the plain little altar.

“You look lovely, Chastity,” Harry whispers.

How can my mom be marrying a man I’ve only met four times? How can this guy be the one who will sit in my father’s chair?

Mom and Dad are right behind me. Dad kisses Mom’s cheek, shakes Harry’s hand, and I surreptitiously wipe away a tear. Dad turns away, and my throat slams shut. No, Daddy! Fight for her!

But Mom is beaming. Harry is beaming. Dad sits in the second row with Mark and Elaina, picks up Dylan and kisses his cheek, possibly, I think, to hide the tears in his eyes.

And then, without a lot of pomp or circumstance, my mother turns to Harold H. Thomaston and becomes his wife.

THE CHURCH HALL IS DECORATED with pink streamers and pink flowers. Pink balloons are tied in bundles to the concrete posts, and the DJ is setting up in the corner. It looks more like a seven-year-old girl’s birthday party than the wedding of two senior citizens. The Starahs cleverly hired a couple of high school girls to keep an eye on their broods, and the kids are running around, stuffing deviled eggs in their mouths and getting sugared up on Shirley Temples and root beer.

My plan is to have a large glass of wine as promptly as possible, but Mom forcibly introduces me to each and every one of Harry’s relatives and friends. By the time I sit down, my cheeks ache from fake smiling and my feet are killing me, encased in tombs of size-eleven kitten heels invented by a man whose mother must have beaten him daily to inspire such misogyny.

“How are you doing?” Angela asks, sliding next to me.

“Not that great,” I admit. “How about you?”

“Matt’s telling your father he’s leaving the fire department,” she murmurs, toying with a napkin.

“Kicking him when he’s down?” I suggest, looking over to where Matt and Dad sit, head to head, faces serious.

“Well, to be honest, Chastity,” Angela says gently, “your father doesn’t seem that unhappy.”

She’s right. That’s probably the most depressing thing of all. That, or Trevor’s face. He’s sitting in the corner table with Jack and Lucky and their many children, staring at the saltshaker, clearly lost in thought. Unhappy thought. At least he had the grace not to bring Perfect bleeping Hayden.

“Your brother wants to be a teacher,” Dad announces, thumping into the chair next to me. Matt sits down more gracefully next to Angela.

“And how do you feel about that, Dad?” I ask.

He eyes Matt. “I’m surprised, that’s all, son,” he says. “I thought you loved the fire department.”

“I do, Dad. But I want to try this, too.”

“Fine, fine,” he mutters. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that you can’t keep a man away from the work he loves. Right, Chas?”

I roll my eyes and chug a little wine.

“Well, Matthew, you’ll be a great teacher. And a husband one day soon, if I’m not mistaken,” Dad announces heartily. I sputter some wine—so graceful, really; I should’ve been a princess.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

Angela’s face is bright red. Matt grins. “Well, we’re planning to get married. Nothing official yet, since I don’t have a ring and all that, but, well, I’m giving notice, Chas. Angie and I are moving in together.”

“Great!” I bark. “That’s just great. That’s just bleeping wonderful. So happy and all that crap.”

Angela’s face falls, and I’m immediately repentant. “Shit. Sorry, Ange. I am happy and all…” To my horror, I start to cry. “It’s just that…I’ll miss you, Mattie. So will Buttercup.”

“We’ll be two blocks away, Chas,” Matt says, putting his arm around Angela. “And I couldn’t do better than this girl, could I? Just think. Another sister-in-law.”

All four of my brothers, married. Everyone except me. Boohoohoo. I get up, hug them both, mess up Matt’s hair and give him a smack, then go to the bathroom to cry a little. There’s no respite, though, because my father bangs on the door. “Chastity! Your mother’s going to dance with my replacement,” he calls. “She wants you there.”

“Great,” I mutter at my reflection. Reaching into the bodice of my dress, I yank up my strapless bra and stomp out of the bathroom.

All the guests are gathered round the little dance-floor area. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ says, and I resist the strong urge to stick a finger in my mouth and make a gacking sound. “Appearing for the first time as man and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Harry Thomaston!”

Everyone claps—even sulky little old me—as they take to the floor. The song is Norah Jones’s cover of the beautiful Hoagy Carmichael song, “The Nearness of You.”

Harry is smiling besottedly at my mother, and she grins back, and suddenly, her happiness breaks through my thorny, sulking heart. She deserves this. She really does, and my eyes fill with tears—again—at the sight of her face.

“And now the bride and groom would like to invite the members of their families to join in,” the DJ oozes smarmily.

Of course, I don’t have a mate, I think as JacknSarah, LuckynTara, MarknElaina and MattnAngela drift out onto the floor. Jack leans down and kisses Sarah’s tummy, Lucky is making Tara laugh. Elaina and Mark are doing that hot staring thing they do with each other, looking like they’re about to burst into a pasa doblé or something. Matt has his cheek against Angela’s blond hair. What a gorgeous family, I admit. Harry’s two daughters are there somewhere, too, but I have to say our genetics are quite superior. What a great job Mom and Dad did!

“Come on, Porkchop,” Dad says, and leads me out to join them.

The familiar smell of my dad envelops me, Johnson’s baby shampoo and Old Spice, and I lean my cheek on his shoulder. “Are you okay, baby?” Dad asks. “Your mother told me about Ryan.”

“So much for her vow of silence,” I mutter.

“Are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“What happened with you two, anyway?”

“He just wasn’t the one, Dad. Blah, blah, bleeping blah. You know how it is.”

Dad chuckles and kisses my hair. Then he stops dancing and looks up.

“Can I cut in, Mike?”

It’s an emotional day, sure. But the sight of Trevor standing there, asking my dad if he can dance with me…It does something to me. My heart surges toward him—the man I’ve loved since I was ten, the man I’ll always love—and for one second, I feel as exposed as a baby mouse in a room full of feral cats. Dad looks at Trevor, smiles and steps back, winking at me, and Trevor takes me in his arms.

His hand is warm and firm on mine, and the heat of his body shimmers into me, even though we’re keeping the proper distance. My cheek grazes his, just enough to feel that he’s clean-shaven today, and heat wiggles through me. I’m actually dizzy with the nearness of him.

Then the song fades, Trevor pauses—the Chicken Dance is sure to follow—but no, the fates decide to be kind, and the DJ sticks with Nora. “Come Away with Me.” Oh, God. I can hardly breathe. We start dancing again.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“I didn’t tell you how beautiful you look,” he says, and it’s hard to look into his chocolate eyes with words like that.

“Thank you.” My voice isn’t working properly. My hand is on the back of his neck, my fingers just brushing against his hair, wanting to slide into the richness there. I can see the pulse in his neck, and maybe it’s a little fast. We don’t say anything for a minute. My heart is pounding so fast I feel a little faint. I try to absorb every sensation—his heat, his hands on me, the clean soapy smell of him.

“Where’s your fiancé?” Trevor asks casually.

I stiffen slightly, and Trevor steps back a little. “Well,” I breathe. “Um, we sort of broke up.”

Trevor’s eyes widen a fraction, an eyebrow raising in surprise. He stops dancing, but none of the other couples seem to notice, too caught up in being in love. “Why?” Trevor whispers, still holding my hand, his arm still around me.

My heart thumps harder, slower, each beat waiting for my answer as I stare into Trevor’s eyes. I open my mouth to give some answer, some casual it-didn’t-work-out kind of thing. But instead, I hear myself say something else entirely.

“Because he wasn’t you.”

Trevor’s lips part ever so slightly. He blinks twice. He doesn’t say anything. The song ends.

“How about that, folks?” the DJ bleats. “And now to change the pace a little. Anyone here know the Macarena?” Everyone claps and cheers, and I feel my dress being tugged.

“Auntie! Auntie! I know the Macarena!” Claire shouts. “Come on! It’s fun! ‘Hey…Macarena!’”

I put my hand on her head, and Trevor takes a step back. Without saying a word, he walks off the dance floor and out of the church hall.

MY MIND IS BLANK FOR THE REST of the reception. My heart is blank, too. It can only take so much, I surmise. Maybe it’s getting used to being in this state of brokenness, of incompleteness. Who knows? Hey, you did all you could, my heart whispers. Thanks for trying.

I dance with my nieces and nephews. I pick them up and twirl them and pretend I’m going to drop them, and they shriek and jump and wait impatiently for their turns with their beloved Auntie. I wave to my mom and smile at my brothers. When Mark asks where Trevor went, I just shake my head and shrug. Then I dance with Harry, towering five inches above him.

“I want you to know how lucky I feel,” he says. “Your mother is a splendid woman. I’ll take good care of her.”

“You better,” I mutter, then correct myself. “I know you will, Harry. Sorry.” He smiles his forgiveness.

Just as I’m about to sit down with various and sundry family members for our rubber chicken, my mother approaches. “Will you make a toast, honey?” she asks. “Harry’s brother is very shy.”

“Sure,” I say automatically. Dad, who’s sitting across from me, gives a nod. Mom flutters across to the DJ, then zips back to Harry.

“And now,” says the DJ, who really should work for Barnum & Bailey, “the daughter of the bride, Chastity O’Neill, will say a few words for the happy couple.” I make my way over to the dance floor and take the microphone, then turn to the guests.

My mind goes completely blank.

“So,” I say. “Well.” I swallow. “Hello.”

Lucky, always the first to start misbehaving, covers his face with his hand. Tara shoots him a look but immediately looks down as her own laughter rises. Then Mark, then Elaina and Matt, then a few of the kids. I grin, and my heart seems to approve. We’ll be okay, it says.

“Shut up, boys. Sorry, Mom.” I grin, then take a deep breath. “I guess there are a lot of kinds of love,” I begin.

“Chastity.”

I freeze.

Trevor is standing at the back of the hall.

“Chastity,” he says again, and starts walking toward me.

It’s silent in here now; the only sound, that of the caterers clattering in the adjoining kitchen. Something’s wrong with me, I think distantly, watching Trevor come closer and closer. My legs start shaking, my eyes sting, my heart races. I may throw up.

“Chastity,” he says quietly. “I can’t live without you another minute.”

The mike falls to the dance floor with a thunk as I cover my mouth with both hands. Tears spill out of my eyes, and I can’t seem to draw a breath. The room is absolutely silent.

“I’ve loved you my whole life, Chas, from that first day you took me home after Michelle died. And I’m terrified you’ll leave me or you’ll stop loving me or even worse, something will happen to you. But I can’t be without you anymore.” He takes my hands, which are shaking wildly, and swallows. “Today I watched Mike give away the woman he loves. I can’t do that, Chas. I thought I could, I thought it would be better if you were with someone else, but I was wrong. And I swear to you, I will love you the rest of my life and nothing will ever come before you. Please, Chastity. Forgive me and marry me and have a bunch of babies with me, and I’ll—”

The rest of his words are cut off, because I’m kissing him. And crying, bawling, really, and Trevor hugs me hard and long. His arms are shaking, and his eyes are wet. Then he pries me off him and slides a ring onto my finger. “I had to go to Jurgenskill for this,” he says, grinning. “Nothing in town was open.” I just wrap my arms around him again, because really, I don’t even care what the ring looks like; it could be a piece of string as far as I’m concerned. All I can do is cling to Trevor and weep, apparently.

“Well, holy crap!” my father blurts in the silence. “Where the hell did this come from?”

“About time,” Mark declares.

“Here, here,” Jack seconds.

“You’re telling me,” Matt says. “Try living with her.”

“Did you guys know?” Lucky asks. “I’ve known for years.”

“Can I be your flower girl?” Claire asks.

But I hardly hear anyone, because Trevor is kissing me and whispering, over and over, “I love you, Chas. I love you, I love you, I love you.”