"All right, everybody. I'm Scott, Tommy's older brother, and for those of you who know me, I'm not much of a speech maker. We soldiers leave that to the politicians. But I did want to share a little story with you." Mitchell pulled from his breast pocket a few index cards and stole a glance down for his prompt. "When Tommy was in third grade, he used to get a lot of homework. And he'd sit at the kitchen table and start crying about it."

That drew aws from the women and a big roll of the eyes from Tommy.

Mitchell continued: "Nick and I used to make fun of him, but then we started talking, making him realize that he spent so much time crying about the homework that he could have finished it in that same time. I guess what I'm trying to say is that Tommy's always been the most emotional one. Dad likes to call him high-strung. And maybe he does wear his heart on his sleeve, but no matter what he does, he always puts his heart in it. That's why I know that he and Rebecca are going to have a great marriage. We Mitchells do everything to the best of our ability, and Rebecca, I'm sure you already know that, otherwise you wouldn't be marrying this knucklehead. And while it's true that Tommy still hasn't stopped crying--but now it's over bills instead of homework--he's become a great man who will make a great husband. Tommy? Rebecca? Here's wishing you all the love and happiness in the world."

Mitchell had barely finished his champagne when the music suddenly returned and a hand locked onto his wrist. "You bastard, you made me cry."

He glanced up into Kristen Fitzgerald's watery eyes. One dreaded duty down, one dreaded encounter to go.

"Dance with me," she demanded, hauling him out on the floor before he could set down his empty flute. She wrapped her arms around him.

Thankfully, the DJ was playing a ballad. All he had to do was rock back and forth while becoming intoxicated from the champagne and Kristen's perfume.

He had been avoiding her all night, despite Dad's nagging, and she'd done the same.

But a breakdown was, of course, inevitable.

Because in Mitchell's expert opinion, she was as spectacular as ever. Her strawberry blond hair curved back into an elegant bun, and her diamond stud earrings flashed brilliantly. The maroon gown with shawl complemented every angle of her athlete's body.

"You smell good," she said.

"I took a shower."

"I hate you," she suddenly blurted out.

"I know."

"Don't step on these shoes. They cost me over a hundred bucks."

"Okay. You're trembling."

"Shut up." Her gaze dropped to his medals.

"What are you looking at? They're just a bunch of medals."

"Right." She came in closer, put her head on his chest. "Feels like we're back at the prom."