“Cheap buttons.”
I glanced over my shoulder and found my brother, Matthew, struggling with the cuff of his dress shirt.
The button had slipped through his fingers twice already.
He muttered under his breath, pulled the cuff toward himself, and tried again.
Around us, the bridal suite was full of noise.
Hair spray hissed.
Someone was laughing near the window.
My maid of honor was frantically looking for a missing earring.
The wedding coordinator had already appeared twice to remind everyone how little time we had left.
And somehow, in the middle of all that excitement, Matthew looked completely out of place.
Not because he was wearing the wrong thing.
Not because his suit didn’t fit.
And certainly not because he didn’t belong there.
He looked out of place because he seemed determined to disappear.
My future in-laws had been making comments about his height all morning.
Nothing direct enough to start an argument.
Nothing cruel enough to make them look cruel.
Just little comments.
Small jokes.
Quiet observations.
The kind of remarks people make when they want to hurt someone without having to admit they intended to.
“That suit cost more than my first car, Matt,” I teased, trying to pull him out of whatever mood had settled over him.
He finally forced the button through the cuff and looked down at it.
“Then expensive buttons.”
I laughed.
He didn’t.
My smile faded.
Instead, Matthew turned toward the full-length mirror in my bridal suite and adjusted the front of his jacket.
Then he straightened his shoulders.
Lifted his chin.
Pulled his shoulders back again.
He studied his reflection carefully.
Not in the way someone checks whether their tie is straight.
It was different.
He looked as though he was trying to change the shape of his body.
Trying to make himself bigger.
Taller.
Less noticeable.
My stomach tightened.
“Matt?”
He stepped away from the mirror.
“Nothing, Jo.”
I had known my brother for thirty-two years.
I knew his jokes.
I knew his temper.
I knew his laugh.
I knew the way he rubbed the back of his neck when he was nervous.
I knew the silence that came over him when something hurt more than he wanted to admit.
And I knew that Matthew’s word nothing had roughly six hundred different meanings.
That particular “nothing” wasn’t one of the good ones.
Before I could press him, someone knocked on the door.
The wedding coordinator leaned inside.
“Five minutes.”
Five minutes.
Five minutes until I walked into the room where more than two hundred people would watch me marry the man I loved.
Five minutes until the little girl Matthew had raised became a bride.
Five minutes until the brother who had spent half his life protecting me would stand beside me in front of everyone we knew.
Matthew looked at me.
For half a second, the uncertainty disappeared from his face.
There he was again.
My big brother.
The person who had stood beside me through every important moment I could remember.
He held out his hand.
“Ready?”
I slipped my fingers into his.
“Absolutely not.”
A smile finally appeared.
“Good. I’d be concerned if you were.”
I smiled back.
Then I felt it.
His hand was trembling.
I looked down at our hands.
Then back at him.
“Matt.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the ballroom doors.
“You sure you want me, Jo?”
The question hit me harder than it should have.
Because I knew what he was really asking.
Are you embarrassed of me?
Do I belong here?
Am I going to ruin this for you?
And maybe most importantly:
After everything I sacrificed for you, am I still the person you want beside you when everyone is watching?
I squeezed his hand.
“You’re the only person I ever wanted beside me.”
His eyes immediately became glassy.
He looked away before I could see too much.