My brother asked me if he could be the one to give me away.

The call was from my mother.

"He knows," she said. "Somebody told him. I don't know who — he won't say. But he knows Margaret tried to have him pulled from the wedding party."

I sat down on the kitchen floor. I don't know why the floor. It's just where I landed.

"How is he?"

"He's been shut in his room since last night. He came down for breakfast and he was —" She stopped. "He was very quiet. You know the way he gets when he's working hard not to show something."

I knew exactly the way he gets.

"I'm coming over," I said.

I found him in the backyard, in the old lawn chair with the faded green stripes — Dad's chair, the one Mom kept threatening to haul to the curb and never did. He had the chipped blue mug, the one he always uses. He was looking at the fence.

I dragged a chair over and sat next to him. Neither of us said anything for a while.

"I know that you know," I said eventually.

He nodded. Kept his eyes on the fence.

"Who told you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Toby."

He turned and looked at me. His eyes were red around the rims. He'd been crying, or fighting not to, for a long time.

"She didn't want me there," he said.

"She was wrong."

"She thought I'd make the pictures bad."

So plain. So straight out. No pity in it, just the fact of the thing, which was somehow worse than tears.

"She was wrong," I said again. "And she knows she was wrong. I told her to her face."

He looked back at the fence. "I practiced."

"I know you did."

"I called the church. I asked Father Reyes what to do. I counted all the steps." His voice held but the hand around the mug didn't. "I wore Dad's cufflinks."

"You were perfect," I said. "Toby, you were absolutely perfect."

"Then why —"

"Because she was wrong. That's the entire answer. None of it is about you. It's all about her being wrong."

He was quiet a moment. "Did Ethan know? Before?"

"He knew she'd said something at dinner. He shut it down. He told her it wasn't happening."

"He didn't tell me."

"No. He was trying to keep it away from you. So was I." I leaned forward. "I'm sorry you found out the way you did. I'm sorry you found out at all."

Toby set the mug on the arm of the chair and looked at his hands.

"The pictures came out good," he said. "They're the best pictures I ever saw."

"The one at the back of the church. Before the doors opened."

"That one's going over our fireplace," I said.

He looked at me.

"Ethan and I decided last week. That photo. Full size. Over our fireplace." I held his eyes. "Not hers. Ours."

Something moved across his face. Not quite a smile. Something headed that direction.

"She's going to see it," he said. "When she comes over."

"Yes, she is."

He picked the mug back up. Looked at the fence again.

"Good," he said, quiet.

We sat out there another hour. Mom brought more coffee. At some point Toby started in on one of Dad's terrible jokes — the one about the farmer and the mailbox — and he blew the punchline in the exact same place Dad always blew it, and I laughed until I was crying, and he laughed too, and Mom stood in the doorway watching the two of us and didn't say one word.

But three days later, Toby called me. His voice was different. Not sad. Careful.