“Grams,” I greet her, swallowing hard.

“I was calling him a looker,” Claire says. “He usually wears dark colors; the white shirt and linen pants are a change from his usual attire.”

“You look beautiful,” my grandmother tells her. “I love your dress and those earrings are lovely. Where did my handsome grandson find you?”

“At a small cafe in downtown Denver,” Claire answers. It’s the response we came up with while shopping for her dresses.

“I love that city,” Grams says. “I regret moving to Florida.”

“Where did you used to live?” Claire asks, focusing on my grandma and listening to everything she has to say about New York City, my late grandfather, and how much I remind her of him.

I leave them chatting to grab something to drink for Claire and myself.

“Thank you, babe,” Claire says softly when I hand her a glass of red wine.

“She was telling me about Reggie,” Grams says. “If you two come down to visit me in Florida, you have to bring him too.”

“We’ll try, Grams.”

“Don’t try, just—” We’re interrupted by the commotion near the buffet.

“Your father’s family,” Grandma says with a sigh.

I fold up my sleeves, taking a deep breath. “See you in a few.”

Nine

Miller

Growing up, I never understood why my father didn’t invite his family to our house. It was only after those rare occasions that I realized they should never be allowed in public. They can’t socialize without creating a scene or inciting a bar brawl.

Claire sits next to my sister, talking to her animatedly. Lola isn’t crying or sad because of dad’s family. Instead, she’s laughing at whatever Claire is telling her.

“She’s a keeper,” Grandma says as I walk by her.

“Hey,” I greet them. Claire takes my hand and squeezes it.

“You shouldn’t invite them to your wedding,” Lola says to both of us. “Elope.”

“I thought you were eloping,” I say.

“Hey, let’s go to the bar, babe,” Claire says. She stands up from her chair, stretches herself onto tiptoes, and kisses my jaw.

“Will you be okay?” she asks my sister. At that moment, Kevin arrives. “Let’s go to my room, Lola.”

“Thank you for checking on her,” I thank Claire and hug her tight to me because, for some crazy reason, I need to hold on to something after what happened.

When we arrive at the bar, she asks, “What’s your poison?”

“We’re in Mexico. Let’s have tequila,” I suggest.

“Clase Azul, chilled,” I request when the bartender approaches.

“That sounds fancy,” Claire says, “I guess I’ll take a frozen margarita.”

“Use the same tequila for her,” I tell the bartender. “Keep the tab open.”

“Max,” she says.

I cock an eyebrow, questioning the sudden outburst of someone else’s name.