The only advantage of the icy bolt of panic currently gripping my belly was that there was absolutely no room whatsoever for any more dread. So as the bridal party lined up outside the ballroom to prepare for the Scottish Grand March, the idea of dancing into the room while hundreds of people watched didn’t faze me in the slightest. Because I didn’t have a speech. For my only sister’s only wedding. Which made me officially the worst, and a certified grade A idiot.

“So we just march around in a circle? That’s all?” Anne Marie asked, clearly a few drinks worse for the wear. Hopefully, nobody’s brachial plexus was in need of attendance this evening.

“Stick close to me, lovey, and I’ll steer ye in the right direction,” Kit purred.

“Ooo, I’ll stick very close!” Anne Marie tee-hee-hee’d.

Unbelievable. The world’s tiniest Casanova was at it again.

“You’re very quiet, Dylan.” Jamie poked me in the shoulder. “You’re not worried about the Grand March, are you?”

“No. I mean yes. A little. Maybe? It’s just marching in a circle, right? Ah-ha-ha-ha!” I laughed a horrible, awkward, strangled fake laugh for no reason at all except that was what my panicking body had decided to produce.

“My God. You really hate dancing, don’t you?” Jamie’s eyes widened.

“I’m going to move to that town from Footloose when I get back. No, I’m going to write a letter and ask the president to Footloose the whole country,” I babbled. “Ah-ha-ha-ha!”

Jamie raised an eyebrow, but wisely chose to say nothing.

The doors to the ballroom finally opened, and it was not what I expected. For once, there wasn’t a single plaid anything in sight. Instead, the space had been transformed into a winter wonderland—like the outside had come indoors. The room glittered with snowy whites and sparkling silvers. Actual trees, painted white and silver, lined the room, their spare branches stretching up to the stag mural on the ceiling. It looked exactly like…

“Narnia,” Jamie said with wonder.

“That is exactly what I was thinking,” I whispered back.

“I’m half expecting to see Mr. Tumnus come trotting by.”

“It makes sense, if you think about it. We’ve got the lion—Ronan, with his long mane of hair. The witch—”

“Ronan’s mum, obviously, yes.”

“And Dusty’s wardrobe,” I concluded, satisfied. “Which, in case you didn’t know, is extremely extensive.”

Jamie barked out a laugh as the band began playing the first strains of the Grand March. I awkwardly hop-skip-marched into the room on Jamie’s arm—technically, as maid of honor, I think I was supposed to be with best man Kit Kirby, but at this point the only way I could have pried the limpet formerly known as Anne Marie off his arm was with a crowbar, and I was more than fine partnering with Jamie. Before I knew it, it was done.

“You did it!” Heaven was waiting at the edge of the dance floor, holding up a soda with a tiny straw and a slice of lemon. “You survived! You Grand Marched the hell outta this thing.”

“Yeah, and now all my troubles are over,” I muttered as I gratefully grabbed the soda she proffered.

“So I scoped out our table sitch. Not bad, not so bad.” She steered me to a round table half-full of nearly identical teenage redheads. “It’s us, Jamie, Kit Kirby—ugh—Anne Marie, and then a bunch of Ronan’s cousins, and I cannot understand a single word they are saying. Their accents are so thick you could swim through them. So prepare for a lot of smiling and nodding.”

“Heaven.” I grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt in the middle of her monologue. “Ididntwriteaspeech.”

“Say what?” She cupped her hand to her ear exaggeratedly.

“I. Didn’t. Write. A. Speech.”

“Oh hell no.” Her face turned stormy. “Dylan. No. No! This is like the one thing you had to do, the one thing!”

“It’s not that big of a deal…right?” I asked weakly.

“It is a huge deal!” She planted her hands on her hips. “How could you not write a maid-of-honor speech?”

“I just, um, forgot. There’s been a lot going on!”

“That’s no excuse!”

“I’m sorry, Heaven, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to your damn sister.” She closed her eyes and pressed her forefingers against her temples. “Lord. Sit your ass down. I don’t have time for you right now.”

“You don’t have time for me? What are you doing?”

“Stuff, Dylan. I’ve got stuff to do, too. Now sit down.”

She pushed me into a chair. I awkwardly nodded and smiled at Ronan’s cousins, who said something either very welcoming or completely offensive. I had no idea.

The lights darkened and the room hushed. Jamie found his way to the chair next to me as Heaven flitted off somewhere. A spotlight illuminated the dance floor. Dusty and Ronan stepped into the light, holding hands. And damn if that traditional ceilidh band Florence had mandated didn’t play the heck out of “It’s Your Love.” Tim McGraw and Faith Hill couldn’t have done it better. Dusty and Ronan swayed gently in a circle, her head resting on his shoulder. There weren’t any fancy steps or anything, but maybe that was part of what made it so nice. Dusty looked so happy, I thought for a minute my heart would burst for her. The song came to an end, and the room erupted into applause, punctuated by a few earsplitting whistles.

“And now,” the rugged fellow who’d been singing Tim McGraw’s part announced into the microphone, “we have a special presentation from the best man and the maid of honor’s best friend.”

The what? The what and the who? I swiveled my head all around, trying to find Heaven, probably looking like a demented owl, but she was nowhere to be seen.

The band struck a chord, and the spotlight illuminated the door, where Heaven and Kit stood, arm in arm. They were both wearing kilts and velvet jackets, with knee socks and black shoes that laced up their legs. As the fiddle kicked into gear, they skipped into the room. My jaw dropped open. Jamie reached over and helpfully tapped it back up into place.

I didn’t know enough about Scottish dancing to know what this was—I only knew that it involved very intricate footwork, very straight legs, and a lot of kicks. How did they learn this? Heaven had been really cagey about practicing something, and this was clearly the result, but how did she become a professional Scottish dancer in like a week?

“Did you know about this?” I asked Jamie as the crowd cheered.

“I had no idea!” He clapped in amazement. “They’re bloody brilliant!”

The band concluded with a strong final chord, as Kit and Heaven bowed to thunderous applause. But just when I thought the dance was over, I heard a guitar from the other side of the room. Every head turned toward the ballroom doors.

A cute blondish guy entered the ballroom playing the guitar, grinning at the crowd as he made his way up to the band on stage. Was that Hunter Hayes? I wasn’t sure. Even though Dusty blasted MISS 98 nonstop on the radio whenever she drove me around, I couldn’t have picked any of her favorite country singers out of a lineup, certainly not Hunter Hayes. But if TRC really was trying to make this into their own version of The Bachelor, it wouldn’t have been complete without a private concert from a celebrity musical guest.

Heaven and Kit grabbed their kilts and jackets, pulled, and revealed entirely new outfits underneath as everyone in the crowd lost their minds. This was like Broadway-level production values. Not for the first time, I wondered just how big the budget was for this whole spectacle.

Under his kilt and jacket, Kit had somehow been wearing a gingham button-down shirt with matching shorts that perfectly matched the gingham romper Heaven wore. It looked a little like a picnic had exploded, but in the best possible way. As maybe–Hunter Hayes sang, “Love don’t know what distance is,” they threw their arms around each other’s waists, began spinning, and launched into the type of intricate partner jazz choreography I had never seen outside of Dancing with the Stars.

I realized belatedly that I was jumping up and down, waving my napkin above my head. Well, whatever—the only way to respond to something this insane was by being completely insane. As Hunter sang, “But I don’t want ‘good’ and I don’t want ‘good enough,’ I want ‘can’t sleep, can’t breathe without your love,’” Heaven took a running start, Kit caught her, and lifted her above his head. The screaming was deafening.

“He Dirty Dancing-ed her!” I screamed, still waving my napkin. “That crazy mofo just pulled a Swayze!”

“I didn’t think he had that kind of upper-body strength!” Far too late, I realized Jamie had been dancing along in an incredibly adorable, completely uncoordinated way.

Kit and Heaven cartwheeled toward each other, but as Heaven stood up, Kit landed on his shoulder with a sickening popping sound. The music cut out abruptly as he screeched in pain.

“Call an ambulance!” he wailed. “I’m injured! And on my good side, too!”

“Back up, y’all.” Anne Marie pushed her way through the crowd that had already gathered around Kit. “No need for an ambulance. Future MD here.” Anne Marie bent down, poking and prodding around Kit’s arm. “Nothin’s broken, honeybun. You just dislocated your shoulder. Hold real still.” With another popping sound that turned my stomach, Anne Marie wrenched his shoulder back into place. Kit yelped, then pushed himself up to his feet, rolling his shoulder experimentally.

“She bloody fixed it,” he marveled. “Right, then. Enjoy your dinners, all!”

Probably not the grand finale Heaven had been hoping for, but it was certainly dramatic. As Kit waved to the crowd, Jamie and I took our seats and happily set to attacking the bread basket. I still didn’t have a speech. Which was, admittedly, not great. But at least I had two working shoulders. And a basket of carbs.

Halfway through the salad course, the bandleader called Kit up to the stage. My stomach let out a loud nervous gurgle. No, it would be fine. Just fine.

“Hello there, lovies!” Kit addressed the crowd, his glass of amber liquid sloshing around in his hand. His other arm was in a sling made from a silver pashmina that definitely wasn’t his. “I’m Kit Kirby, the best man. When I first met Ronan, I thought, ‘That cheeky bugger’s got quite a few Legos.’” Titters from the crowd. “We were four, you see. Wee tots. When I first met Dusty, I thought, ‘Lucky Ronan. What a looker! Those legs! Legs for days, that girl!’” I could feel the force of Florence glaring at him from here. “But it’s not just the legs. There’s the whole top half, too!”

I heard a chair push back and saw Ronan up on his feet.

“With all respect, Ronan, all meant with due respect!” Kit protested. “It’s a compliment, is all!”

Ronan didn’t stop him, but he didn’t sit down, either.

“In conclusion, what I’ve realized is that Dusty and Ronan are much more than legs or Legos. Together, they are much better than apart. And being around all this love has, as always, inspired me to poetry. Because I’m verra romantic.” He winked in Anne Marie’s general direction, then decided to hedge his bets, and winked at a few former pageant queens for good measure. He cleared his throat. “There once was a girl from Tupelo—”

“Stop! No.” Ronan was almost up to the front, grabbing for Kit’s microphone. “No, no. I think you’ve said more than enough already. Cheers, mate.”

“It wasna going to be inappropriate! Well, hardly.”

“See?” Jamie said as Ronan firmly steered Kit back to his seat. “I told you, you’ll be fine. Just don’t compose any naughty limericks.”

“Heh,” I laughed awkwardly.

The bandleader said something about maid of honor, Dylan, bride’s little sister, and speech, but mostly I just heard white noise through a blind panic. I made it up there somehow, carried along on a sea of polite applause.

The microphone stand was way too short, so I pulled the mic out of the clip. I winced at the sharp, high-pitched squeal of feedback.

“Hi, everybody. I’m, um, Dylan. Dusty’s sister.” My hand shook so badly the microphone vibrated in my hand. “For most of my life when I told people that I was Dusty’s sister, they’d say, ‘Really?! You’re Dusty’s sister?!’ And that was, um, annoying, to say the least.” A few laughs from the crowd. “There were a lot of times when I didn’t want to be Dusty’s little sister. I wanted to be me. Just Dylan. But today, I couldn’t wait to introduce myself. Because I’ve got the coolest big sister in the world.”

I took a deep breath.

“The first thing everybody notices about Dusty is that she’s beautiful. And she is beautiful, she’s, like, stupid beautiful in a way that is unfair to everybody else. But that’s actually the least important thing about her.”

For the first time, I looked over at Dusty. She was beaming at me.

“She’s tough. Like, scary tough, sometimes. She will threaten to decapitate all of someone’s Barbies, if that someone is Krystal Hooper and she didn’t invite you and your best friend to her birthday party.”

Heaven raised a hand up high and waved to the crowd from her seat.

“She’ll follow through on that threat, too. She’s patient enough that she’ll let you watch the same Disney movie a thousand times, but spontaneous enough that she’ll give you tiger face paint on a random Thursday afternoon just because she thought you could use a little something special for soccer practice. Dusty is also the only person who’s ever made me laugh so hard I peed.”

Definitely shouldn’t have said that. But all these memories of me and Dusty when we were little were flooding back so quickly I couldn’t stop them from pouring out of me.

“She’s got a wicked sense of humor. But she’s never cruel. She’s way more forgiving than I am, for example. Dusty believes in giving second chances. Even to people who don’t necessarily deserve them.”

My gaze landed on Cash Keller in the crowd, and we locked eyes. Hurriedly, I looked away.

“And maybe most important of all, she’s loving. She loves me, and our mom, and, Ronan, she loves you so much.”

With an exhalation worthy of an elephant, Ronan blew his nose into a big white hanky. Jamie had been right to bring spares.

“I know you know that, because I can see how much you love her, too. And I know that you love the real her, not the pageant princess version, because with you Dusty’s not afraid to take off her tiara and be silly. And those are the moments when I love my sister the best—when she’s really and truly herself. And she is totally herself with you.”

Movement caught my eye. It was a cameraman, swooping toward me to get a closer shot, giant black lens trained right on my face.

“And it’s hard, to be yourself. It takes bravery. Especially when you know the whole world is watching.”

In that moment, I realized how I’d become able to ignore the camera—it wasn’t because I didn’t notice it anymore. It was because I didn’t care. I was exactly who I was, camera or no. Pamela, and the camera, and everyone back home in Tupelo could watch if they wanted to. It wouldn’t change anything about me, or Jamie, or my family. We knew who we were. And looking at Dusty and Ronan, I knew that she knew who she was when she was with him. I swallowed noisily, hoping to keep the prickle of tears at bay.

“Welcome to the family, Ronan. I am so honored to be your wee sister.” With regard to his own tears, Ronan was making no such effort. He wept openly and joyously. Dusty patted his back, grinning at him. “To Ronan and Dusty!” I raised my glass. “But to Dusty, especially. After all, today is her special day.”

As people clapped, I made my way back to my seat, relieved to be out of the spotlight. My entrée was waiting for me. I looked at it quizzically.

“Is this a tiny chicken?” I asked.

“They’re quails,” one of the redheaded cousins answered. “Shot right here at Dunyvaig.”

No, not the quails! How could this be?! White-faced, I turned to Jamie, who patted my hand sympathetically and handed me another dinner roll. I couldn’t believe I was complicit in quail murder.

“Good night, sweet quails,” I whispered.

“And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,” Jamie added.