99 Reasons Why It Wasn't Love

11 | The Wedding

I've been looking forward to this chapter for only forever. Thatcher's family has always been really clear to me, and I was dying to write about them. Which can only mean one thing - the next chapter is here, and so soon after the last one! Yay! This chapter is dedicated to FlyingMozart, since I cranked this chapter out in four hours just so I could get her opinion on it.

The Wedding

There was something I had failed to mention to Thatcher. Wait, correction, there’s a lot of things I failed to mention. There’s just one, specifically, however, that might have been important to mention before we stepped into the church. It was slightly – okay, more than slightly – embarrassing, and that was probably why it conveniently slipped my mind.

There was a pack of tissues in my cardigan for a reason.

“Thatcher!”

“Uncla!”

There was a hoard of little rugrats screaming Thatcher's name; no, not Doctor Smooth. I have to admit, I was impressed. I would never be able to tell Packard's twins apart because of their noses or Langston's daughter apart from his niece. It was a strange art, one I didn't have any interest in learning, or excelling, at.

“My baby!” It wasn’t hard to make out Thatcher’s mother in the sea of tan-skinned, brown haired Lucases, and pale faced, disntinctly not-related Flannerys. She was at least a head shorter than every other adult there, and about twice as wide. The only knowledge I had of this previously had come from Thatcher’s warning not to step on her.

“Mom, seriously?” he scowled at his pet name, but opened his arms for a hug all the same.

“Seriously.” Mrs. Lucas winked at me, like we shared an inside joke, before pinching his cheek affectionately. “You must be Bronwyn. Thatch here has told us all about you.”

If he wasn’t blushing before, he certainly was now. Heck, I was blushing. “I’ve heard a lot about you too,” I stuttered lamely. Great. What an absolutely stellar first impression.

His mother just chuckled however, clearly amused by our strange pairing. At least someone was enjoying this absolutely painful experience. “Well,” she said, chuckling, “aren’t you sweet.”

“Thank you?” I asked, but then immediately corrected myself. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Lucas.”

“Pfft,” she swatted my arm, beaming. “Just call me Jane. Everyone does.”

“Alright. Jane.”

She chuckled lightheartedly – god, did everyone in this family chuckle? Was it genetic? – before pinching Thatcher’s cheek again. And on that note, she left to greet the next slightly dazed couple.

He turned to me. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s alright. She’s sweet.” I shrugged.

Honestly, I expected this to be a lot worse. Yes, the whole ‘meet the parents’ thing was more than a little cliché mixed with a whole lot of awkward, but I was thinking it would turn out more along the lines of painful with a whole spoonful of disapproval. But Jane seemed to like me. Surprisingly.