“Probably not.”
“Wow, thanks. You could’ve sounded a little doubtful.”
Dylan sits next to me and takes my hand. “This is a big deal. I doubt they’ll watch our every move. I think the only time we’ll get this scrutiny again is if we have....”
A baby. His words delve into the box where I’ve locked away my grief and shake everything out. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Not today.”
Ed barges into the room holding two Xbox controllers. “Dylan, you said you’d play with me before dinner.”
“We’re a little busy, Ed, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I nudge him. “No. Play with him now.”
The intense blue eyes, which have an annoying habit of looking straight into my real thoughts, search mine as he touches my cheek. “I need to know you’re okay.”
“I am. Let me read this and see what they thought of my wedding dress.” I squeeze his hand. “Tara will be pissed off if they criticise it.”
Dylan sits back and laughs. “Who gives a shit?”
“Tara will!”
The boys head off to play their game, and I swallow my bravado back down. I sling Dylan’s phone onto the seat and apply the response that helps me the most in these situations: screw them all.
Our plans for a magazine interview to share what we wanted about the wedding? Not happening anymore. If the press don’t play nicely with me, I sure as hell won’t co-operate with them.