Mack is six foot six inches tall. The kids he works with as a pediatric nurse see the kindness in his heart and they love him, but he looks a little intimidating. He’s a mix of a motorcycle gang member and Santa Claus without the white beard. “What’s wrong with my pumpkin? She still wants to get married, doesn’t she?”

“Please, come upstairs.”

His eye flew open wide and he went white. He sprinted to the house and thundered upstairs to her pink room.

“Love muffin,” he said. “My sweet rose. My darling cupcake. What is it?”

“Oh, oh, oh!” Jules cried. She wrapped her arms around him and was soon hugged by a giant bear.

“Mom. Aunts.” I motioned to them. “Let’s leave the two love muffins alone.”

They followed me out, hands wringing, chants to the heavens for luck whispered by my aunt Camellia.

My mother said, “My goodness. If she doesn’t get married I’m going to drink a whole keg of beer myself.”

Aunt Iris muttered, “She’d better walk down the aisle with that young man. Statistically speaking, she has a high chance of being married forever.”

I figured they would need fifteen minutes. Mack would not be able to “take his time,” this time, as we had a wedding. We waited downstairs. Mack came bounding out on the dot in fifteen minutes and announced, “My sweetheart, my chocolate croissant, is feeling better now, ladies! On with the wedding. I cannot wait to be in that gazebo with my apple pie.”

We trooped upstairs, my mother and aunts holding on to their marvelous hats. Jules was much better. Her newly done hair was a mess and her makeup would have to be redone. “He’s so sexy,” she whispered to me. “He knows exactly what to do for my nerves and my brain and my va va voom. I feel so much better.”

* * *

I took a deep breath before I walked out of the house in my maid of honor dress and came face-to-face with Marco. He was in a dark blue suit and looked like a cross between Tarzan and a love God. I, however, was not in a traditional maid of honor dress. Picture those silky, fluffy, lacy dresses that maids of honor wear.

That was not me.

Picture the pastel colors.

That was not me.

Picture the matching heels, the hair all done up with curls and whirls.

That was not me.

What was I wearing?

I was in a black leather bustier.

Yes, a bustier.