The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)(22)

It’s an off-white, floor length lace dress, with one-inch lace straps, a sweetheart neckline and a red silk sash that ties around the waist. The material is thin and drapes straight down my body, without any poufy, heavy layers that will make me melt into a puddle of sweat at an outdoor wedding in July.

“Fine, I guess I can forgive you for denying me the experience of watching my only daughter try on a hundred wedding dresses, realizing when she gets to the last one that the first one she tried on is the one she wanted, wasting hours, days and weeks of my life that I will never get back,” she complains.

Scheva leans forward on the couch and hands me the bottle of vodka. I bring it up to my lips and take a huge swallow to block out mom-guilt, wondering if I should be concerned the alcohol no longer burns going down my throat.

“However, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for lighting a hundred wedding invitations on fire. Do you know how long it took me to hot glue gun those little red bows on all of them? You’re a horrible child, and Nicholas is now my favorite,” she informs me.

“I HAVE MADE FIRE!” Scheva shouts, pumping her fists in the air, yelling the line again from Cast Away that she kept screaming out in the back yard when we scooped up those invitations, outran my mother and tossed them into the fire pit.

I stumble over to the couch, clumsily handing the bottle of vodka back to Scheva as I flop down on the cushions in between the two of them, throwing my arm over my mom’s shoulder.

“Let me ’splain somefin to you,” I slur. “Sam, I really really love him.”

I pause, trying to remember what else I was going to say. It takes me a minute and then I snap my fingers.

“Sam has nobody,” I continue, my body swaying back and forth. “NO-BODY. Zilch, zero, zip, cinco.”

“I think cinco means five in Spanish,” Scheva informs me. “Or it means rooster. My Spanish is a little rusty.”

I wave my hand at her and lean closer to my mother’s face.

“Whatever. Sam is alllllllllllll alone, except for us. I don’t want him to be sad when our side of the ceremony has like, fifty-million people, a cashier from Macy’s and an Amish man churning butter, and his side has nooooooooooooobody,” I tell her. “He doesn’t even have an Amish butter churner because he’s never met the Yoder’s. How sad is that? He really likes butter, too.”

“Butter is delicious,” Scheva mumbles.

“Butter really is delicious. Sam doesn’t have any butter. I don’t want him to be sad that he doesn’t have any butter. Do you understand now, mom?” I ask, wondering why she has two heads and they both look like they might burst into tears.

I hear Scheva let out a small sob from behind me and I turn around to see her furiously texting on her phone.

“What are you doing? Are you ordering more vodka? I don’t think we need any more vodka. I have to pee,” I complain.

“I’m texting Alex. What you said was so beautiful, Noel. I just told him I love him and I miss him and I’m sorry,” she says with a sniffle. “I don’t want him to turn into an ugly drag queen because of me. It’s not right. It’s just not right.”

My mother reaches around me and takes the phone from Scheva’s hand, looking down at the screen for a few seconds before shaking her head and typing something herself.

“Are you texting Mr. Yoder?” I ask, leaning down and putting my face right by the phone screen, but everything is blurry and words are weird. “Tell him he can still come to the wedding if he sits on Sam’s side and brings butter.”

My mother sighs, setting the phone on the end table next to her, far out of Scheva’s reach. “The Yoder’s are Amish, Noel. They don’t have cell phones. I sent Alex another text so the poor boy doesn’t think Scheva is crazy.”

“They don’t have cell phones?!” I shout in confusion. “How do they post pictures of their feet in cool socks next to a cup of coffee on Instagram and Tweet all their thoughts and emotions in 140 characters or less?”

“I once Tweeted that I ate an entire pound of bacon for dinner and I wasn’t even ashamed. Hashtag, meat sweats,” Scheva admits.

“Dude, that’s really deep.”

“I know, man,” Scheva agrees with a nod. “Hey, Bev. Let’s go back to the text I sent Alex. It was good, right? It felt good. My heart feels full and alive.”

My mother gets up from the couch and takes the now-empty bottle of vodka from Scheva’s hands and then pats her on the head like a puppy.

“Honey, you sent him a text that said, ‘I want to butter your penis like a slice of toast, and then take a bite. But not an ACTUAL bite, because that would hurt. And possibly result in you needing a tetanus shot. I HAVE MADE FIRE! We’re gonna burn this motha’ f*ckin’ house to the ground,’” my mother tells her, reciting the text Scheva sent in a monotone voice.

“Wow, that wasn’t at all like what I heard in my head when I was typing it,” Scheva muses.

“I told him you were drunk and to disregard the previous message. I also told him you would be passing out on the couch soon and he should come over in the morning with lots of coffee and Tylenol,” my mother finishes. “Don’t throw up on any of my furniture and don’t send any more drunk texts. I’m going to bed.”