Four to One: Outvoted at My Own Wedding novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Four to One
The Brennans vote to move Jo's wedding to Dawn's birthday, Jo finds the group chat that decides every vote, leaves her ring on the table and walks out; Brett's text lands in her phone by mistake.
At my parents' table, nothing was decided until Dad wrote the count on his legal pad.
Five people, five votes, majority wins.
I had lost every vote for six years.
Four to one, every time, and Dad underlined the four.
Tonight's motion was my wedding.
"We're moving it from September sixth to June fourteenth," Dad said, uncapping his pen. "Dawn's birthday."
Dawn smiled at her plate. She was twenty-seven, my foster sister since I was fourteen, and she was wearing the soft gray sweater Mom bought her last week.
"June fourteenth is seven weeks away," I said. "The hall is booked for September. Half our guests can't change their flights."
"Nobody asked for a debate," Mom told Dad. "Call it."
"All in favor of June fourteenth?"
Brett's hand went up first.
He didn't look at me when he did it.
My fiancé of two years sat beside me, the ring he'd given me still on my finger, and he raised his hand before my father finished the sentence.
Then Mom's went up, and Dad's, and Dawn's.
"Four," Dad said, and wrote it down.
"Opposed?"
I raised mine.
"One. Motion carries."
Mom already had the serving spoon in her hand.
"Dawn's dress is ivory, you know," she said to nobody. "She had it taken in on Tuesday. It's going to be lovely."
"For a birthday party?" I said.
"It's a nice birthday," Dawn said, and kept smiling.
Dad's iPad lay face up beside the salt. He used it to keep the family calendar, and it lit up now with a banner.
I wasn't snooping. It was right there.
The banner said Mom had written in a group chat called Plan J.
Under the name were four small circles.
Mom. Dad. Dawn. Brett.
Mine was not one of them.
The message preview said: "Good. Now let her do her little no, and she'll fold by dessert like always."
I looked up.
Mom had her face turned to the gravy.
Dad was blowing on his fork.
Brett slid his hand over my knee under the table, warm and easy, and squeezed once.
"Babe, you're making a face," he said quietly. "It's just a date."
"It's just a date," I agreed.
I picked up the iPad.
Dad said, "Joanna, that's mine."
I held it up and read the thread aloud, because I could still see the whole top of it from where I sat.
"Brett: Hand up first, like we said. Dawn: She'll fight for ten minutes. Dad: Then give her the ten minutes. Mom: We've never once needed her vote."
Nobody said anything.
Dawn put her fork down.
I scrolled up with my thumb, and the thread went on and on.
Dates. Votes. My name, again and again, in a chat I wasn't in.
Three years back, Dad had typed: "Jo says no."
Mom had answered: "Count it as a yes. She'll go along."
For six years I had thought I kept losing.
I had never been allowed to count.
"Joanna, give it here," Dad said. "Family business."
"It was my business," I said. "Every one of them was."
I set the iPad down on his plate, on top of the potatoes.
Brett stood and put both hands up, soft, reasonable.
"Okay. Let's all take a breath. Jo, you're upset, and I get it, but nobody did anything wrong. We just wanted you to be happy about the date."
"Did you want me to be happy before or after you voted?"
"Don't be dramatic," Mom said. "Sit down and eat."
I looked at the four of them.
Four hands that had gone up before I opened my mouth.
I took the ring off my finger.
It left a pale line where it had been.
I put it in the middle of the table, next to Dad's legal pad, and the sound it made was very small.
"I'm moving a motion of my own," I said. "I'm leaving. All in favor?"
Nobody raised a hand.
"Opposed?"
Nobody.
"Then it carries," I said, "and I didn't need any of you."
I took my coat off the hook and my keys off the shelf, the brass boat tag from my old summer job swinging on the ring.
Mom hadn't moved.
"Mail's on the counter, Joanna," she said. "Take it with you, since you're being like this."
It was three flyers and a pizza menu.
I took them anyway and walked out.
I was halfway down the driveway when my phone buzzed.
It was a text from Brett, and it was meant for the chat. He had sent it to me by mistake.
"She'll be at the boathouse crying by midnight, she always goes there. Dawn, call the hall first thing, we need that date locked before she cancels it."
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