My wedding day was supposed to go off without a hitch.

For one thing, it’s a spring wedding, which means we had to have it inside. You can’t predict the weather in April, so my mom didn’t get the big outdoor gala that she wanted. We settled on a reception hall in the city that has huge windows, though. Everything is flooded with natural light. Weather? No problem.

I didn’t count on the teething.

January is seven months old and an absolute wreck.

Five days ago—yes, five days ago—she started fussing. I had no idea why. No matter what I did, she fussed and fussed and fussed, until finally Dayton snapped. He took work off and took her to the pediatrician. When I got home, he was sitting there with a perfectly healthy baby.

“What’d they do?” I asked him, wonderingly.

“Told me to give her some Tylenol. She’s teething.” He smiles, rolling his eyes.

“Teething? She’s only seven months old?”

He’d pulled me into his arms and kissed me. “What, did you think she’d wait until she’s two?”

“No. But the wedding—”

“Tylenol,” he said firmly.

The thing about Tylenol is that it only works if you give it to the baby. My parents did a nice thing for us last night and took January to their house so we could finalize some last minute wedding details and, shall we say, work out our frustrations. It was perfect.

Until my mother delivered a cranky baby to me who’d already drooled through her back-up outfit.

It’s fine, really. January is clad only in a diaper, since I’m not putting on her fancy dress until the last moment, and we’re still waiting for the emergency Tylenol to kick in. She’s so uncomfortable that I don’t want to put her down. That should only make it slightly more difficult when it comes time to put on my dress.

The stylist looks at us both in the mirror. “Can you tilt your chin up a bit, honey?”

I tilt my chin up and try my best to watch January in the mirror. She’s calming a bit, leaning back in my arms and gnawing at a teether shaped like a strawberry. She catches sight of me in the mirror and smiles a big, gummy grin that warms my heart.

“Hi, boo boo,” I tell her in the glass, and the stylist laughs.

Hitch over.

Except—

“It’s quiet in here.” I look around at the bridal suite as much as I can without moving my head. “Where’s my mom?”

“She probably went to get another glass of wine from the caterer,” the stylist says. “Helps to calm the nerves.”

“What nerves?” Everybody else is made up, dresses on. I’m the last to get my hair done. Then we have half an hour for pictures before the ceremony. How did the morning go by so fast?

I entertain January, playing little games with the teether, and then the stylist is done. “How’s that?”

“Honestly, I’m a vision.” It’s true—my makeup is flawless. My hair is on point. This is happening. The solid weight of January in my arms is all that’s grounding me. Today is the day I marry the love of my life. Today.

The doors to the bridal suite burst open. In the mirror, I see my mother and turn to face her, standing up with January in my arms. “Thank God, Mom! We’ve got to get me in this dress.” She’s followed closely behind by my maid of honor, Whitney—”obviously,” she’d say if you asked her about it—and Hazel, who still works with me at Heroes on the Homefront and is thrilled to be a bridesmaid. The three of them exchange a look.

“Oh, no,” I say, trying to keep my smile in place. Trying to keep my cool in place. “What’s the look for?”

My mom opens her mouth and shuts it again, eyes welling with tears.

“Mom? Did something happen?”

“You—” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “You look absolutely gorgeous, Sunny.”

“Thanks, Mom, really.” I can’t help glowing with a little bit of pride. All of this has been crazy to put together with a new baby and both of us working. I’m surprised we pulled it off.

Or maybe we haven’t.

“There’s a slight issue,” Whitney says. “With your brother.”

“With Wes?” I rack my brain for any possible issue he could be having. He came to the city a few days ago for Day’s bachelor party, said he had some things to do, and checked into the hotel attached to the reception hall. Day hasn’t texted me about anything going wrong this morning, but— “What’s wrong with Wes?” He’s the best man. He’s got the rings. He knows where he has to be.

“We can’t find him.”