“Please, just go change. If you pick out a different shirt, I can iron it.”

“Fine,” Wyatt huffs, pulling out this hideous dark blue thing with small white dots decorating it.

Of course the label is branded Old Navy.

“Stop kidding around.”

“Stop being a prick,” Wyatt claps back.

“Fine, fine.” It’s better than nothing. I iron the shirt against my better judgment.

When I’m done, Wyatt throws it on, buttoning it quickly and tucking the tail into his pants. I spritz myself with some cologne, and just like that, we’re off. In the elevator, down to the ground floor, and out to the street.

Volo Restaurante is this quaint, warm-looking spot that’s been entirely rented out for the evening just for this dinner. By the time we make it to the front door and I give my name to the maître d’, most of my family is already there.

“How do I look?” I ask Wyatt.

Not that I care about his opinion, but his is the only one I can trust right now.

“Your collar.” He points. “In the back.”

“Then fix it!” I whisper.

“Okay, okay. Jesus.”

His strong hands pull on the back of my neck, flattening the collar out before he rests them on my shoulders.

“Good?” I ask.

He nods. “Good.”

Thankfully, there are enough people here and everyone is distracted enough that no one really notices when we slip into the dining room. Each of the large, circular tables has been situated around the room, along with a few of the booths on the perimeter of the restaurant.

I lead us into a booth in the corner. Maybe we won’t be noticed there.

The waiter comes over and, with a flourish, says, “The menu tonight was decided by the wedding party. Are there any allergies I should be made aware of?”

“No, we should be—”

“I’m allergic to shellfish, actually,” Wyatt interrupts.

“Of course. There is an appetizer of crab cakes. I can substitute them for a different dish if you would like.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “Just some bread.”

I am starving. And crab cakes sound so good right now. But I have no idea how bad Wyatt’s allergy might be. I’ve heard of people getting whiffs of shellfish and breaking into hives. I don’t even know if that’s true, but I’m not going to risk it in front of my family.

“Big crowd.” Wyatt stares at the amount of people.

“And that’s not even the full party. The guest list is, like, three hundred people. Maybe more.”

“Jesus.”

“Told you, you’re in for quite the event,” I say. Then things get quiet, like we’ve suddenly forgotten how to speak to each other. It’s not like we have regular conversations; the ones we usually have rarely last more than ten words. “I didn’t know you’re allergic to shellfish.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry for almost killing you.”

“It’s fine. My throat just swells up so much that I can’t breathe. And I don’t have my EpiPen with me, so you wouldn’t even be able to do anything while I die in your arms.”