“Her fiancé’s name is Bert?” Sam says to me in the elevator. “Bert definitely sounds like an old dude.” The doors slide open.
“I was always too chicken to ask when she came in to demand I control the weather for her special day. I do know there are no adult stepchildren in the bridal party,” I say. “I only wish I were quicker on the draw with the Ernie jokes, but in between worrying about not getting her bazillion-dollar dress wet and finding her an eagle to pose with …”
“She didn’t seem in the mood for jokes,” Sam says. “Which is a shame because I have many.” He wiggles his phone in front of him.
I stop before my room. “What are we doing for dinner?” As soon as I ask, it dawns on me that maybe Sam doesn’t want to be a “we,” that maybe he wants to just chill in his room and read or slee
