Page 26 of Unmanageable

“How are Callahan and Iveline holding up?” she asks. “With only three days left, the house must be absolute chaos. Is she handling the stress well? I know how much goes into planning a wedding of that size.”

“Ivy’s fine,” I say. “She’s running the whole operation like a military general. And Callie is mostly just trying to stay out of the firing line.”

Mom smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“It breaks my heart that we won’t be there to see it, Finnian. It really does. I feel so terrible about it. Callahan was like a second son to us when you boys were growing up. Please, tell him how sorry I am. Tell them both we send all our love, and that I’ll be thinking of them the entire day.”

“He knows, Mom. Don’t worry about it. He understands.”

“Finnian, you really should just tell him the truth,” she says, her tone shifting to something more pleading. “Tell him what’s going on so he actually understands why we can’t come. Your father just doesn’t do well with new environments anymore, let alone a massive crowd of people he doesn’t recognize. He’d be terrified, Finn. If you just explained the diagnosis to Cal—”

“No,” I intercept quietly, my jaw clenching as I cut her off. I look away, staring out the window into the dark backyard, unable to meet her gaze. “He has his own life to worry about right now, Mom. He’s getting married in three days. He doesn’t need the weight of this hanging over him while he’s trying to stand at the altar with Ivy. He doesn’t need my problems.”

“But he’s your best friend,” she presses. “He loves this family. If he knew Matthew was sick, he would understand. He wouldn’t be burdened; he’d be supportive.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

The last thing I want is Callahan looking at me with pity during his wedding week, or letting the shadow of my family’s reality touch his joy.

He thinks my parents are just getting older, preferring the quiet of Winchester over a loud, crowded life in Boston.

It’s a clean lie. It’s an easy lie.

It’s better that way.

“Let him have his week. I’ve got it covered.”

Mom looks at me for a long moment, seeing the wall I’ve built up, and lets out a soft, defeated sigh.

“Alright,” she says. “Go. Callahan’s probably vibrating with anxiety about the centerpieces. Go be a best man.”

“He’s actually currently stressed about a Craigslist goat, but that’s a story for another time,” I mutter, forcing the easy, careless smirk back onto my face. “Drink some water, Mom. Go to bed early. I’ll call you before the rehearsal.”

“Drive safe, Finnian.”

I walk out to my truck, the night air crisp against my face.

The silence of the driveway feels massive now, echoing with old memories of slapshots against the garage door and a loud voice telling me to keep my knees bent, to watch the puck.

The garage door still has the black scuff marks from my old rubber pucks.

The memories are everywhere, trapped in the paint, but the man who gave them to me is fading like an old photograph left in the sun.

I climb into the cab and start the engine, but I don’t pull out immediately.

I look back at the sunroom window, seeing the faint silhouette of my father sitting in the dark, looking out, still waiting for a version of the world that has already slipped through his fingers.

I shift into reverse, the headlights cutting through the dark, and turn back toward the highway, forcing the mask back into place before I hit the first light.

7

Scottie Elise Reed

“Hold still, Sophie,” I hiss, my tongue poked out in concentration. “If I slip, you’re going to have a very permanent, very red accessory for the walk down the aisle. Nobody wants blood on the tulle.”

“It’s itchy, Scottie!” the eight-year-old whines. “It feels like a family of angry cactus bugs lives in this dress!”

“Life is itchy. Law school was itchy. Being a woman in a male-dominated industry is exceptionally itchy,” I mutter, but my hands immediately contradict my sharp tongue.