Chapter Twelve: Lost in Austen
Looking back, Amy should have just stayed home. That, at least, would have saved Harper's dress from ruin—not to mention her mother's dinner party and her father's award-winning roses.
Then again, after the hellish night she'd been forced to endure, Amy was ready to admit that maybe everyone deserved exactly what they got. Of course, that could just be the alcohol talking.
It had all started out innocuous enough. She and Dooley had a pleasant ride to Orange County, discussing the latest exploits of his children as well as an amusing anecdote he shared involving a pair of overly amorous clients who accidentally became trapped in the bathroom when they tried to join the mile-high club mid-flight.
At no time did her brother-in-law bring up Sheldon or her less than de rigeur behavior in the Tweety Bird sleep shirt, and, for that, she was exceedingly grateful. Emily called twice under the guise of checking their journey's progress, but Amy knew she was really just checking to make sure that, one, her sister was actually coming, and two, she was really all right.
Amy was proud of how calm and collected she was. Sheldon, of course, was still in the back of her mind, but she was confident she would be able to keep her heartbreak in check for the remainder of the evening. After all, this night was about Harper and, while time spent with her family usually was an exercise in patience and endurance, Amy knew she could keep it together long enough to deal with anything they had to throw at her.
Later, she realized she should have known better.
The issues started the second she crossed the threshold of her parents' four-bedroom, two bath suburban white colonial that had shutters so brown they could have been painted with a melted Hershey bar. The combined scent of old books, Chanel No. 5, and disappointment invaded her nose, reminding Amy of why she so rarely came home. It was always such a trial of endurance.
Dooley quickly excused himself to go get ready. Her mother, who had donned a beige shell dress with a matching tweed jacket and Mary Jane heels, didn't greet her daughter as she ushered her into the living room. Instead, she fingered the thin strand of pearls around her neck and assessed Amy's appearance with a critical eye.
"Pink? That's such a … youthful … color choice, Amy. After all, you are in your thirties now."
Amy, of course, rallied back with her usual change-the-subject ploy. Sometimes it worked. Most often, it didn't. "Hello, Mother. How are you this evening?"
"Fine. Thank you." She tapped a finger against her chin. "You know, black is a slimming color. Your Aunt Agatha, who—like you—is blessed with those generous Fowler hips, wore a black dress at the last family reunion, and I was sure she'd lost ten pounds. It's remarkable what a simple color change can do to disguise one's flaws."
Amy gritted her teeth and looked around the living room, searching desperately for a new topic. "Has Harper's fiancé' gotten here? I haven't met Bruce yet, and I'm also eager to meet his parents." Especially if it means I don't have to keep listening to you go on about what I'm wearing.
"Not yet. They're not expected for another hour or so." Her mother circled her, thinning her lips in disapproval. "I'm glad to see that you took my advice about keeping your hair out of your face, but why didn't you wear the combs I got you for your birthday? They give you such a pleasing countenance." She tsked. "You have beautiful eyes if you'd only show them off."
Amy used her beautiful eyes to note her mother's shoulder-length, coffee-colored hair that was currently being held back on each side by a set of combs and gave a slight shudder of disgust. "Do you need any help with the food? I could chop something if you like."
"No need. I brought in Jeanette to help for the evening," her mother replied before her silvery eyes zeroed in on Amy's lips. "I've never seen lipstick quite that color before—at least not on a woman who wasn't playing a hooker on television. I must say, it does nothing for your complexion. You don't wear it around Sheldon, do you?"
"Kindly cease your torment of our daughter, Evelyn. I think she looks quite pretty," a succinct, British accent uttered from the den. A few moments later, a tall, thin man with a balding head, thick gray eyebrows, and sparkling green eyes joined them. He didn't bother to stop until he had both arms wrapped around Amy. "Hullo, angel."
Amy smiled at the nickname her father used for all of his daughters and leaned into the hug. "Hello, Dad."
"It's been far too long since I saw you. I know your mother is a trial, but why punish me, too?"
"Charles," Evelyn huffed, offended.
He winked at his wife. "Well, you are, my dear. One of these days you are going to realize that Amy dresses just like you do. Conservative and classy. Just leave her be." He stepped away from his daughter, looking pointedly behind her. "Where's Sheldon? I was hoping to finally meet this physicist boyfriend of yours."
Amy gave a silent thank-you to Emily for not spilling the beans about her break-up. She wasn't ready to even begin to think about how to deal with that. "He had work to finish up. He's been paired with another physicist on an important grant proposal. If they succeed, that will mean nearly a million dollars in research funding for Caltech."
"Emily said he isn't attending the wedding either," her father said, totally ignoring the news she'd been trying to impress him with. "Is he purposely trying to avoid me?"
"Of course not. I told you. He's just really busy," she replied.
He frowned a moment before breaking into a wide smile. "Tell your young man he can't avoid me forever. I'm going to need to meet him sooner or later." His back straightened with unabashed male pride. "After all, I need to see if he's up to scratch for my angel."
A stab of pain ricocheted in her chest. She plastered a smile to try to cover up her discomfort.
"Oh, Dad," Emily said, coming down the stairs. "Has anyone ever been deemed good enough?"
He gave a boisterous chuckle. "Not hardly. But it's still a jolly laugh to try to scare them off. Helps to separate the men from the boys, if you will. My favorite victim was Dooley. I thought he was going to faint when I brought out your grandfather Fowler's service revolver for cleaning. "
"And yet, he survived the experience and married me anyway." Emily patted her father's cheek.
"Indeed," Charles said. "A stout fellow, our Dooley. I must admit Bruce Foster wasn't nearly as much fun. I'm not sure that boy is incredibly bright. I think most of my threats went right over his head. Honestly, as a father, it was quite disappointing."
"Harper is a lucky woman," Amy couldn't help but add. Maybe it was the heartbreak talking, but the idea that her annoying little sister was marrying a complete idiot somehow made her feel better.
"Indeed she is," her mother agreed, overlooking Amy's obvious sarcasm so acutely that Amy found herself suddenly missing her ex-boyfriend. "It also doesn't hurt that Bruce is the Vice President for Internet Sales at his father's company." Her voice lowered to a theatrical whisper. "He makes six figures a year and drives a BMW."
It was at times like these that Amy felt like she was trapped in a Jane Austen novel. In this case, Pride and Prejudice. Her parents were most assuredly the Bennets; Emily was Elizabeth; Dooley was Darcy; Harper, with her flighty nature, was definitely Lydia; and it was Amy's hope that Bruce would turn out to have more than a little Wickham in him. She hated how petty thinking that made her feel, but seeing as she was beginning to believe she was middle sister Mary Bennet—the studious spinster destined to never marry and live out the rest of her existence pathetic and alone—she was able to throw off any residual guilt.
Sheldon, with all his rules and fussy nature was definitely a Darcy. Nope, she thought, not going there.
Emily rolled her eyes at their mother's bragging and turned to her sister. "You look nice. Pink really suits you."
"Thanks," Amy replied. "You look beautiful yourself."
This, of course, was an understatement. Emily looked, in a word, exquisite. Her sleeveless, emerald cocktail dress was a throwback from the 1950's and was paired seamlessly with black wedge heels and a simple gold cross necklace. Even her sensible, I'm-a-mother-so-don't-judge-me hair looked gorgeous as it was pulled into a glossy, low ponytail.
"Aunt Amy!"
All eyes turned to the top of the staircase. A whirlwind flew down the steps, coming to rest mere inches from where Amy stood. A girl of eleven adorned in a yellow sundress covered in a lavender button-up sweater and a pair of green slippers smiled up at her. "I've been waiting all morning for you to get here. I wanted to show you what I found outside. It was a dead squirrel without any marks or bruising which would suggest a cause of death by predator. I performed an autopsy, but—"
"Lillian, that is not proper dinner conversation." Amy's mother interrupted.
"But we're not at dinner yet, Nana," the girl pointed out. "We're standing in the living room."
Amy came to her niece's rescue before a full-blown issue started. "Lily, you can tell me all about your findings after dinner."
The girl's green eyes glittered with an enthusiasm and scientific curiosity Amy knew quite well. "I wrote up a full report. I've got a copy for you upstairs."
"I look forward to reading it," Amy said with a stoic nod of pride.
"Well, I'm one lucky chap," Charles Fowler stated. "I'm surrounded by beautiful women." He leaned down to his granddaughter. "Especially you, young lady. You look rather fetching."
Lily reached up to touch the lavender headband which had pushed her brown hair out of her eyes. "Thanks, Granddad. I had a red purse, but Nana said it clashed. The world is awash in color all the time. Why can't I be as well? How can a rainbow ever clash with anything?"
As Amy had often pondered this herself whenever her mother criticized her fashion choices, she shrugged and said, "Maybe you should save it for the wedding. It would look great with your flower girl dress."
"Her dress is peach. Red does not go with peach. Anyone with half a brain knows this. Duh!"
They all turned to see a tall, thin blonde beauty descend the stairs. Her hair was pulled back in a dignified chignon. Her cream-colored strapless dress ended mid-knee and highlighted her sun-kissed skin and white strappy heels. It might have made her look innocently bridal if it hadn't also pushed her ample bosom so skyward that Amy was sure astronauts on the space station would be able to see them.
"Hi, Harper," Amy said.
Her sister's nose scrunched a little at the end like she'd just smelled poop on her shoe. "Hi, Amy." She caught a meaningful look from their father and threw her sister a wide, fake smile. "Good to see you. Thanks for coming."
"Harper," their mother intoned. "We agreed I would buy that dress if you wore the matching jacket. That neckline isn't ladylike."
Harper shrugged. "Who says I'm a lady? I'm getting married in a week. I should be able to wear what I want. Besides, it's too hot for a jacket. Do you want me to perspire in front of my in-laws? Duh!"
Amy found it fascinating that, no matter how old her sister got, she never stopped talking like a teenager. Then again, as she was a twenty-six-year-old still living at home with her parents, Amy supposed she shouldn't be too surprised.
"You live in our house; you will follow our rules," Evelyn pointed out.
"But, Mommy—"
"Harper," Charles said, his voice authoritative and direct. He was a jolly man usually, but when he used that tone, no one dared gainsay him.
Her delicate shoulders slumped. "Yes, Daddy. I'll go get it."
The pause that had overcome the room when Charles spoke was gone the second Harper disappeared back upstairs.
"Where's Mike?" Amy asked, looking around for her nephew.
"He's upstairs with his father getting his pants ironed. I told Dooley if I had to iron those suckers again because that boy can't keep himself from rolling around like a boulder, I was going to kill him. Why can't he just sit down and be still for five seconds?" Emily complained.
"Welcome to having teenagers," Charles said with a grin. "Wait until Lily gets there."
Lily frowned. "I have no interest in riding skateboards, playing video games, chasing members of the opposite sex or hitting small, white balls with metal bats. I have important work to get done. If I'm going to be a forensic anthropologist by the time I'm twenty-one, I have to make every minute count. In fact, after completing the autopsy on the—"
Amy's mother held up her hands. "Lily, please don't get into that again. We know you skipped two grades this year and we're proud of you, but if I have to hear about the insides of that squirrel one more time, I'm going to forget I'm a lady and scream." She patted her clearly frustrated granddaughter on the head and turned to her daughters. "Amy, you and Emily come with me into the kitchen. I have some last minute things you can help me and Jeanette with. Lily, you stay here and keep your granddad entertained. Charles, make sure Harper comes down wearing all of her clothes and answer the door when you hear it. The Fosters should be here within the next half hour or so."
Charles gave a swift salute to his forehead, palm faced outward. "Yes, ma'am!" Then, with a wink, he turned to Lily and said, "Come now. Let's have a chat. Have I told you about the prize I won at the Orange County Rose Cotillion?"
Lily sighed. "Yes, Granddad. You did. You had the most vibrant petals they'd ever seen."
Amy wanted to feel sorry for her niece, but she was too busy feeling sorry for herself. After all, she would rather hear all about the exploits of her father's roses than deal with her mother.
The second they were in the kitchen, Evelyn handed Amy a paper towel. "Here," she said.
"What is this for?"
"Lipstick. Wipe it off. There is no way you're wearing that during my dinner party. The Fosters will be here. Everything has to be perfect," her mother said. "Then, you can tell me what is going on with Sheldon that he can't be bothered to meet his girlfriend's parents ... again."
Oh yeah, Amy thought. Roses are infinitely better than this.
—TMR—
Amy was dying to go home. She'd spent fifteen long minutes in a kitchen with her mother, who had the interrogation skills of a prisoner of war camp boss. But Amy didn't crack. Emily did, though, and declared that she had to go check on Mike after the first five minutes. With her sister gone and no one standing between Evelyn and Amy but the plump cook Jeanette, Amy had to use every tool in her arsenal to combat her mother.
"Is he getting tired of you?"
Amy picked up an onion and began chopping it into little pieces. "No."
"It wouldn't surprise me if he did. No man will buy the cow when he's getting the milk for free. In fact, pretty soon, he'll stop wanting the milk altogether. Have I told you how disappointed I am that you would give up your innocence to a man who isn't your husband?"
Amy closed her eyes. She should have told the truth about her and Sheldon a long time ago, but she'd never been able to make herself do it. First because it annoyed her mother to no end—which was always a good thing—and, later, because she'd hoped the lies she and Sheldon had told Evelyn over Skype would one day prove true. Now, it just hammered home how much it never would. "You wanted me to find someone, Mother. How many times have you said that to me? Well, I found someone. I found Sheldon and, together, we found the bed."
Seeing her mother's jaw drop should have delighted her, but somehow, it didn't. When she was finished mincing the onion into barely discernible bits, she took out her frustration on the asparagus.
"I don't need those chopped, dear," Jeanette whispered, saving the green stalks from the wrath of Amy's blade.
Amy glared at her like a child who'd been denied a toy. The gray-haired Jeanette offered a tomato instead, which she gratefully took.
"I've never said anything to your father about that, Amy," Evelyn said. "He wouldn't be as understanding as I have been, but—"
"Why do you always hold me to a higher standard than you do Emily and Harper?" Amy asked. "Emily had sex in high school, and Bruce is Harper's second fiancé and probably her tenth lover. Why pick on me?"
Evelyn paled and turned to Jeanette. "Can you excuse us for a minute?"
"Sure," the woman replied, stirring a few pots on the stove before she exited the kitchen.
Amy had finished with the tomato and started on another. Evelyn reached over and took the knife from her. Then, laying her palms on top of Amy's hands, she said, "You're different. You always have been. I knew it when I held you for the first time. I could see it in your eyes. You're meant for great things, Amy, and I want those things for you. I will do anything I can to help you achieve them—even if it means I have to fight against you." She sighed. "You've always been so perfect. You had the perfect grades, the perfect temperament, and the perfect personality. You're honest, direct, loving and so intelligent."
Amy finally looked up at her mother. "But still not good enough, am I? I'm not perfect until I'm wearing the right clothes with the right hair and the right man, correct?"
Evelyn flinched. "You've never needed anyone, Amy. You came out of me so independent and strong. I still remember back when I dropped you off at pre-school. Emily and Harper cried and begged me not to leave. But not you. I had barely dropped you off and you were already pushing me out the door like you couldn't wait to be rid of me. I've watched you. If you could, you would remain alone for your entire life—existing in a world of monkeys and science. There is more to life than that. There are best friends and boyfriends and weddings and children."
"And you think I don't have that? I have a best friend, Mother. Her name is Penny, and I have another friend. Her name is Bernadette. And, I have Sheldon." She closed her eyes against the pain welling up inside her. I had Sheldon. Then again, maybe I never really did after all.
"He isn't the one for you. You deserve the right man. I won't apologize for wanting that for you. You're destined for great things. You need a man beside you who can understand and support that. Sheldon, as much as you obviously care for him, isn't that man. No man who says what he said to me can be the right man. He has no manners. He's proven that time and again."
She glanced up to glare at her mother. "How would you know? You've only spoken to him the one time."
"Exactly! You've been together over three years. A gentleman who had honorable intentions towards my daughter would have made a point of coming to see us. He would have come here with you this evening. He would jump at the chance to escort you to Harper's wedding. He wouldn't let work get in the way. Instead, Sheldon is more concerned about his own career and interests than you."
"You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know Sheldon."
"I know he doesn't love you. He doesn't respect you. He doesn't deserve you, Amy."
Amy snatched her hands back and moved away. It felt like a wound inside of her had just been ripped open and acid poured inside. It took all she had not to scream, hit, or cry. In the end, she just stared at her mother and calmly said, "I'm going to take a walk. I'll return shortly for dinner."
"Amy—" Evelyn began.
"If you mention Sheldon again, I promise you that I will leave and not come back … ever."
Evelyn's jaw fell open and then quickly slammed shut. The blood rushing to her cheeks showed how much she was aware of the damage she'd done, even though Amy knew her pain wasn't so much from what her mother had said, but by the fact of how spot-on she'd been in saying it. Hadn't that been why she'd dumped him in the first place? She turned to leave the kitchen before anything else could be said. She couldn't bear any more.
An hour later, she returned to the house, not better, but definitely calmer. The guests had arrived and dinner was beginning to be served. She was chided by her father for her absence and was forced to take the only empty seat next to her mother.
There were plenty of new faces at the table. Unfortunately, Harper's fiancé proved to lack any interesting, Wickham-like qualities. Where Austen's villain was a charming, roguish "bad boy" who made all the girls swoon, Bruce was an oafish, blonde-headed man who seemed to have more dimples and money than sense. Then, there were the Fosters, his equally materialistic and ridiculous parents, who made jokes that weren't funny and couldn't stop nodding to her father and saying "Cheerio!" for no reason whatsoever.
Emily, Dooley and their children were seated at one end of the table with her father—an end that Amy had mentally begun calling the "fun side" while she, Harper, Bruce, the Fosters and her mother were at the other end, which Amy silently referred to as "the seventh circle of hell." The first hour consisted of nothing more than talk of the upcoming wedding and all the plans made.
"The bridesmaids' dresses you chose are really beautiful, Harper," Mrs. Foster commented.
"We're still talking about adding shawls to those," Evelyn added, sending Harper an oh-yes-we-are glare when her daughter opened her mouth to argue. "It'll be too windy to go completely strapless."
"Emily doesn't mind strapless," Harper pouted.
"What about you, Amy?" Mrs. Foster asked. "Do you mind?" Her eyes slid over Amy's outfit. "You strike me as a … conservative … dresser."
She smiled tightly. "It doesn't matter what I think. I'm not a bridesmaid."
Harper blushed guiltily and said, "She's going to play the harp before the ceremony starts. That's almost as important as a bridesmaid, and she can wear whatever she likes. Win-win!"
Amy kept her smile on her face throughout the rest of the wedding discussion. However, when the topic changed to Harper's current dress as well as how lovely she looked in general, it took everything Amy had not to roll her eyes. So, she focused her attention on the young couple instead, curious to see how they interacted together.
After five minutes of careful observation, Amy did not find pleasing results. Harper, as the center of attention, gushed and simpered and played to the crowd while Bruce seemed more interested in buttering his yeast roll than in talking to his soon-to-be bride.
Why doesn't Mother go after Harper about her love life choices? Amy thought, gritting her teeth. It was obvious how wrongly-suited the couple were for each other. No doubt, they'd be divorced in a year. But every time Amy looked at her mother, she was smiling at the couple adoringly like it was a fairy tale coming true before her eyes. Amy remained silent and tried to concentrate on her food. Sitting beside her mother made this task difficult. She took it upon herself to limit Amy's portion sizes and restrict her access to the bread basket.
"Fowler hips," Evelyn reminded as she offered another yeast roll to Bruce.
As throwing a temper tantrum or storming out was not an option with company in the house, Amy did the only thing left for her to do: She drank wine—lots of it. Thankfully, as the wine changed with each of the seven courses her mother had planned, this was not a difficult thing to do.
With the hors d'oeuvres, they had a Merlot; with the cream of barley soup, they had a Pinot Noir; with the poached salmon, there was a nice Pinot Grigio; with filet mignon, it was back to red; and by the time they got to the sixth course of the evening, a cold asparagus vinaigrette, Amy didn't much care what she was drinking—only that her glass was kept full.
"Harper's name is so unique," Mrs. Foster said. "How did you come by it, Evelyn?"
Evelyn turned to look at her husband with a knowing smile. "Why don't you tell them, dear?"
Charles grinned as he revved up to tell one of his favorite stories. "All our girls are named the same way. Evelyn, as you know, is a librarian and has been a voracious reader ever since I met her. Therefore, she demanded we name each of our children after her favorite literary authors. Emily comes from Emily Bronte. Amy comes from Amy Lawrence Lowell, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet. Harper, of course, comes from Harper Lee, author of To Kill a Mockingbird."
He gave a delighted laugh as he got ready to deliver the punch line he'd been using for longer than Amy could remember. "Since she gave them their first names, I got to decide their middle names. Since they are all my little angels, I named them after my favorite television show of all time."
"Charlie's Angels," Harper, Amy and Emily chorused, knowing the story by heart as well as their part in it.
Charles laughed. "Too right. Thus, we have Emily Kate, Amy Farrah, and Harper Jaclyn."
"Cheerio!" Mrs. Foster said with a chuckle.
"Cheerio!" Mr. Foster agreed, raising his wine glass in a mock toast. "We just named Bruce after my dad."
Amy rolled her eyes, but used his toast as an opportunity to drain her glass. She was getting sloppy drunk and didn't care one bit.
Mrs. Foster turned on her before she could get Jeanette's attention for a refill. "So, Amy, Harper is an administrative assistant, and Emily is a kindergarten teacher. What is it that you do?"
She stared over at the blonde woman whose blue eyes reminded her of Sheldon and blinked, trying to focus. "Huh?"
"Amy's a neuroscientist," her mother interjected, seeming to finally notice her daughter's growing inebriation. She snatched away the wine glass and handed her a roll, ordering her to eat it before turning back to Mrs. Foster. "She's a genius and graduated from high school by the time she was fifteen. Her IQ is 191, you know."
Not one to look turn down a good yeast roll, Amy ripped into the bread and said, "I'm a neurobiologist. It's not the same as a neuroscientist."
"It's not? It sounds the same," Mr. Foster said.
Amy frowned at him. "Neuroscientists study the brain as a whole and how it connects with behavior. Neurobiologists study the brain on a strictly cellular and/or molecular scale, which means we have an infinitely better understanding on how the brain functions than neuroscientists do." She hiccupped and employed Harper's favorite phrase. "Duh."
"Amy!" Evelyn scolded. "Mind your manners, and eat some more bread."
Mrs. Foster, however, seemed too curious to be offended. "So you study the mind. How fascinating. What does that mean?"
"It means she plays with monkeys," Harper interjected with a giggle.
"It means," Amy answered as though her sister hadn't spoken, "I study the biological functions of the brain." She took another bite of her bread and propped her suddenly-heavy head on her hand. "For example, if I were to dissect Harper's brain, I'm sure I would probably find that her front cerebral cortex is stunted and that her corpus collusum is malfunctioning."
"What does that mean?" Mr. Foster asked.
"It means she's stupid," Amy snapped.
"Hey!" Harper snarled.
"Amy," her mother hissed.
Mrs. Foster laughed as though Amy had told the best joke ever. "You really are a genius, aren't you? How fabulous. I've never seen one of those in person before. And your mother says you have a boyfriend who's a scientist as well?"
Questions. Questions. So many questions. When will they end? It was all she could do to keep her head from swimming, and this woman would not cease her never-ending questions. She decided to use a line she'd seen Penny employ successfully on more than one occasion to shut people up. "What are you, a fucking cop?"
"Amy." This came from her father. He didn't yell her name. Then again, he didn't need to.
The room gave a violent swing, and Amy had to hang on to prevent herself from falling. She couldn't focus on Mrs. Foster across from her; so she focused on her father's prized petite, pink roses, which he'd cut from his garden and had placed as a centerpiece in the middle of the table. Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don't throw up.
"You all right?" Bruce asked next to her, grabbing her shoulder.
She snatched away from him, not liking the idea of a stranger touching her, but this made her dizziness and nausea worse. "I need to lie down," she said. She pushed her chair back and tried to stand up, but her knees refused to hold her. She grabbed the end of the table to steady herself and ended up knocking Bruce's wineglass over.
Directly onto Harper.
With a shrill scream, her sister flew up from her seat. "No! My beautiful dress!" But the damage was already done. Amy blinked, but the red smear of wine spreading across Harper's cream jacket only seemed to get larger. She groaned, trying to get to her to try to mop of the mess, but her knees proved unstable, and she began to fall. Then, suddenly, she was weightless and staring up at a smiling hunk of a man holding her in his arms. "Hi there, Dooley."
He didn't grin back, but he also didn't put her down. That was the most important thing.
"Hi, little sister. Let me take you upstairs so you can lie down."
"Goooood ideaaaa," she slurred.
"Yes, get her out of her before she ruins anything else. I told you not to invite her, Mommy," Harper said, snatching off her jacket before the wine could spread any further. "Do you see now, Emily, why I couldn't have her in the wedding? She'd mess up everything or bore us all to death with her talk of brains. Plus, the bridesmaid's dress would look terrible on her. We all know she doesn't have any boobs."
"Harper!" Her parents shouted in unison. "Enough."
Amy drunkenly looked at Dooley. "You're a good man, Darcy."
He frowned. "Thanks."
"Take her out of here," her father said.
And, with that, he carried her from the table. A crashing sound followed. Unfortunately, Amy still had hold of the table cloth and took most of the table with them, leaving a devastation of broken dishes, glass, cutlery, and splattered food in her wake. More of Harper's screams followed, along with gasps and groans from the other guests. Her mother was apologizing, her father was calming down Harper, Emily was trying to get Mike and Lily to stop laughing, and the Fosters were trying to clean food off their son's suit. Unable to deal with any of it, Amy buried her face in her brother-in-law's muscled chest and tried to ignore the rolling nausea in her stomach.
Don't throw up on Dooley. "I told Emily I shouldn't have come," she grumbled.
"You were right about that," he said, laying her across the bed in her old room that was now covered with more wedding paraphernalia than a bridal shoppe. "There. I'll get you a cold rag and a trash can. You're gonna want to hurl sooner or later. When you're feeling up to it, me and Em will take you home," he said.
He walked to the door, but her next question stopped him in his tracks. "Why can't a Darcy ever fall in love with a Mary?"
"Huh?"
"What's wrong with Mary? Sure, she's shy and she's not as pretty or as interesting as her other sisters and maybe her boobs are slightly smaller than average, but does that mean she should have to spend the rest of her life alone? No. She's the smart one. She's the studious one. She got an awesome pelvis that brings all the boys to the yard. Who knows? She might have a lot to offer a Darcy. But no, you Darcys always want an Elizabeth and you want to tell all your stupid work colleagues all about our non-existent sex life. Well, let me tell you, Darcy. You're really missing out on something special here."
Dooley sighed. "I'm not sure who Darcy is, but I am telling you right now, genius or not, that Sheldon guy is an idiot. You're good like you are. That's what I've always liked about you. Your confidence. You're always been happy to just be Amy. Don't let him take that away from you. Sooner or later, the right guy will come along."
Amy would have argued with him, but just then, the world swirled violently and everything faded to black.
