Los Angeles | 2009
Bradley's POV
Three months.
That's how long we'd been in Los Angeles; two of those had been spent navigating the halls of Northwood Junior High. I could say, with a certainty that felt foreign to my old life, that it has been an absolute joy. The perpetually blue sky was a novelty, but the real magic of this city happened indoors, under the bright, humming lights of the Staples Center.
The best part, without question, has been the Lakers games. They were on a historic run that season, a tidal wave of gold and purple that I knew, with perfect foreknowledge, would crest with a championship. Being there—smelling the popcorn and hot dogs, hearing the roar of the crowd swell into a physical force that vibrated in your bones—was like mainlining pure adrenaline. I'd been to three games already, watching Kobe Bryant move with a predator's grace and Pau Gasol dominate the paint. It was living history, and I'd already convinced Dad to get me tickets for the Finals if they were held in L.A. He'd agreed with a simple nod, the way he did when a mission parameter was set.
Today, however, was about a different kind of ceremony: Jay and Gloria's wedding. We'd missed the main event. Dad had been stuck on duty since last night, something about a satellite launch going sideways—the kind of problem that makes generals miss family functions. But we weren't going to miss the party. We were headed for the reception now.
The silence in the car wasn't uncomfortable, just heavy with the day Dad had endured. He sat behind the wheel of the sleek, black sedan, his posture as ramrod straight as ever, but I could see the fatigue etched in the tight set of his jaw. Mom was in the passenger seat, a picture of calm elegance in her cocktail dress. The scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive—mixed with the clean leather of the car's interior.
"Will there be cake, Mom? A big one?" Erin chirped from beside me, kicking her patent leather shoes against the seat in a restless rhythm.
Mom turned, her smile warm in the dim light. "I'm sure there will be, sweetie. Mr. Pritchett wouldn't let a party happen without cake."
"Of course there's cake, Bug," Dad added, his voice a low rumble. He glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes meeting mine for a second before flicking back to the road. "Just try not to get any on your dress this time."
I watched the palm trees, silhouetted against the bright evening of L.A., slide past the window. "Is everything okay with the satellite, Dad?" I asked quietly.
He let out a slow breath. "It's a classified headache, but it's stable for now. Nothing for you to worry about." He reached over and briefly squeezed Mom's hand. "Right, Mags? Tonight, we're off duty."
"Completely," Mom agreed, her tone gentle but firm, signaling the end of any work talk. "Tonight is for friends and family."
The car slowed, turning into a long, winding driveway illuminated by fairy lights woven into the hedges. Ahead, a sprawling clubhouse glowed, its large windows spilling warm light onto a manicured lawn where valets in sharp uniforms were already directing a line of luxury cars. The sound of music and mingled voices grew louder as we approached the entrance.
Dad pulled the car to a smooth stop behind a gleaming convertible. He put the car in park and turned to face us, the last vestiges of his work fatigue replaced by a familiar, mission-ready focus.
"Alright team," he said, his voice crisp. "Best behavior. Let's go congratulate the happy couple."
I recognized the sprawling, manicured grounds of the country club instantly; this was the place Jay had been trying to get Dad to join for a round of golf. Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of lemon polish and money. A discreet brass signboard directed us toward the "Pritchett-Delgado Reception," and I led the way down a long, carpeted hall.
Behind us, our four-man security detail moved in a silent, synchronized diamond formation. This was the part I was still getting used to. Before the star on his shoulder, Dad never had a shadow. Now, he had four. The memory of their sudden, dramatic appearance on the Dunphys' lawn was still fresh, a constant reminder to mind the new protocols.
The reception hall was picturesque elegance. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a rolling golf course bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Inside, the room was a sea of round tables, floral centrepieces, and the gentle clinking of champagne flutes. An elderly gentleman, clearly the best man, was midway through a toast at a small podium.
"...and I knew right then," he was saying, "that Jay had finally—"
He stopped. The story died on his lips as a hundred heads turned in unison toward the doorway. It's impossible to be subtle when your family's entourage consists of four stoic figures in dark suits who scan a room like they're securing a hostile embassy.
A ripple of whispers went through the crowd. I saw Dad's eyes find Jay's across the room. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod—an apology and a greeting rolled into one. Jay, standing beside a radiant Gloria, simply smiled and nodded back, a flicker of mutual understanding passing between them before he gestured for the best man to continue.
With the brief commotion settled, we navigated our way to an empty table near the back. Dad let out a heavy sigh as he loosened his tie and sat. "I understand protocol better than anyone," he murmured, his voice low and tight with frustration. "But sometimes I'd love to walk into a room without causing an international incident."
Mom chuckled softly, placing a hand on his arm. "You chose the career, Mark. It comes with the flag and the four-man fan club." She then turned, her focus shifting with practiced ease, and caught the eye of a passing waiter. "Now, let's get me some champagne and Erin her cake."
As Mom gave our orders, I scanned the room, my own mission beginning. I was looking for the Dunphys, trying to get a feel for the social geography. According to my calculations, the Dede situation—Jay's ex-wife the mother of Claire and Mitchell—was due to detonate at any moment, and I wanted the perfect vantage point. It might seem cruel not to intervene, but in a complex family ecosystem like this, I was a relative stranger. A pre-emptive move on my part would likely cause more chaos than it prevented.
My best strategy was non-interference. I would observe, and I would help only if absolutely necessary.
"Brad, look!" Erin whispered, tugging on my sleeve. Her eyes were wide with a reverence usually reserved for puppies and Christmas morning. "The cake is so big. I bet it's super tasty."
She pointed from our table towards a magnificent, three-tiered wedding cake glistening under the reception lights. I nodded, a grim smile touching my lips. It was indeed a beautiful cake. A shame about its imminent and messy fate.
The best man wrapped up his heartfelt, slightly rambling speech to a smattering of polite applause. Jay and Gloria, seated at the head table, clapped along, sharing a private smile. It was in that peaceful lull that the first note of discord sounded—a sharp, piercing clink of a glass being tapped insistently with a fork.
Every head turned. There, standing unsteadily near the dance floor, was Dede Pritchett, Claire Dunphy's mother. She held a half-empty champagne flute aloft, a splash of its contents sloshing over the rim.
"I would like to make a toast," she announced, her voice carrying across the suddenly quiet room. One glance was all it took to make the diagnosis: she was several glasses past tipsy and well on her way to disastrously drunk. A waiter, oblivious, dutifully handed her a microphone.
My eyes flicked to Jay. His posture, once relaxed, had gone rigid.
"To the bride and the groom," Dede began, a saccharine smile on her face. "My ex. Thirty-five years we were together. And he couldn't wait ten minutes to run off with Charo." A few nervous titters rippled through the guests. Dede waved a dismissive hand. "I'm kidding. Seriously, I knew they were perfect for each other when I saw his wallet and her boobs."
The silence was deafening but then the band mistook the entire speech for a joke. A loud BA-DUMP-TISHHH was heard.
I watched Gloria's vibrant smile tighten into a perfectly still, dangerous line. Dede seemed to sense a presence beside her. "Take your hands off me," she slurred, swatting at empty air.
"Mom. Mom," Mitchell pleaded, moving to her side in a practiced motion of damage control. He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She shrugged him off violently. "Oh, relax, Mitchell. What, did you take your Claire pill?"
At the next table, I saw Claire jolt to her feet, her face a mask of fury. Phil, with the practiced reflexes of a man who had diffused this exact bomb a hundred times before, gently pulled her back into her seat, murmuring something in her ear.
"Okay, l-let's just... let's get a little fresh air, okay? Come on," Mitchell tried again, attempting to steer her away.
But Dede was now playing to the horrified crowd, swatting away Mitchell's hands as Phil and a brightly dressed Cam moved in to assist. It was a clumsy, chaotic intervention. The three men, abandoning all pretense of subtlety, decided on a tactical extraction. They hoisted her into the air, one man on each arm, one on her legs.
She began to thrash, her voice rising in a mocking, high-pitched imitation of Gloria's accent. "I'm Gloria! I'm Gloria! Kiss me! Oh, hey, kiss me!"
From somewhere nearby, I heard Luke's small, awe struck voice cut through the chaos. "Nana is really strong."
He wasn't wrong. She continued to flail, a whirlwind of anger and expensive fabric.
"Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi! Ooh! Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi!"
Then it happened. As they carried her past the dessert table, she kicked out. Her leg lashed out in a surprisingly powerful arc, her heel connecting squarely with the bottom tier of the wedding cake. For a moment, it seemed to defy gravity, tilting in a perfect, slow-motion disaster before the entire structure collapsed, tumbling off the table in an avalanche of white frosting, ribbons, and shattered dreams.
The room was plunged into a stunned, absolute silence, broken only by Erin's horrified gasp.
"The cake!"
I angled my body and pointed towards a long, linen-draped table on the far side of the room, which had gone largely unnoticed in the Dede-centric chaos. "Look. They're serving all kinds of desserts over there. Different cakes, ice cream... even custard."
Her head whipped in that direction, her grief instantly forgotten. A new, determined gleam entered her eyes as she bolted from her seat, a small missile of purpose making a beeline for the buffet before another disaster could befall it.
With my sister's crisis averted, I navigated through the stunned clusters of guests and made my way to the Dunphy table. Phil was trying to comfort Claire, who was staring at the frosting-splattered space where the cake had been, her expression a mixture of weary resignation and simmering anger. I approached her side.
"Mrs. Dunphy."
She looked up, her eyes taking a moment to focus on me. "Bradley. Right. Welcome to the family circus."
"That was... a lot," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I'm sorry. That wasn't anyone's fault. It was just the alcohol doing its worst."
Claire let out a short, humorless laugh. "Bradley, trust me. At its worst, alcohol is still less dramatic than my mother." She sighed, the fight seeming to drain out of her as her gaze drifted towards the head table where her father was now talking quietly with Gloria. "I should probably go check on my dad." With that, she stood and walked away, leaving a palpable tension in her wake.
I turned my attention to Alex, who was picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth, her focus entirely on avoiding eye contact with anyone. I slid into the empty chair beside her.
"Your grandmother," I said, keeping my voice low, "is a whirlwind."
Alex looked up, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. There was a flicker of defiance in her eyes. "She's... going through a rough patch right now," she said quietly but firmly.
I nodded, accepting the explanation. It was a standard line of familial defense, a placeholder for a much more complicated truth. I glanced over at Erin, now happily acquiring a slice of chocolate cake. "Well, I was going to follow my sister's lead and investigate the dessert situation," I said, turning back to Alex. "Feel like exploring?"
She considered my offer for a moment, her gaze darting from me to her family and back again. A small, almost imperceptible nod was her reply, but as she started to slide out of the booth to join me, the corner of her mouth twitched into something that looked suspiciously like a smile.
The evening settled into a warm, relaxed rhythm after Dede's chaotic departure. The band, sensing the shift, transitioned into a smoother, more classic setlist, and the tension in the room dissolved into the gentle murmur of conversation and laughter. Jay and Gloria, looking genuinely happy, were the first ones back on the dance floor, their movements fluid and joyful. Soon after, Dad led Mom out for a slow dance, his usual stoic expression softening as he held her.
I stood in the corner, content to observe, nursing a glass of sparkling water and watching the couples swirl under the soft lights. It was a peaceful scene, a perfectly balanced social equation. Then, a new variable introduced itself with a hesitant tug on the sleeve of my tuxedo jacket.
"You don't dance?"
I turned to find Alex standing there, her gaze fixed somewhere around my tie, not quite able to meet my eyes. I could see exactly where this was going, and a smile played on my lips.
"I do," I said, feigning a deep sigh. "But it's hard to dance with the air, isn't it? Oh, how glorious it would be to have a partner."
Her eyes widened slightly, a flush of pink rising on her cheeks. "A p-partner?" she stammered.
"For the dance, of course," I said, giving her a cheeky, reassuring grin. I decided I'd messed with her enough. I set my glass down on a nearby table and formally extended my hand. "Would you like to dance with me tonight, Alex?"
She hesitated for only a second before placing her hand in mine. It felt surprisingly warm, and for a split second, my mind—which could map out a full-court press in an instant—went completely blank. I led her to the edge of the dance floor, and as the song swelled, I gently pulled her into frame.
The first few steps were a bit stiff, a silent negotiation of rhythm and space. But then, something clicked. She found her footing, relaxed into my lead, and we began to move together with an ease that felt… right.
"You know," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "I have to admit, I wouldn't have pegged you to be such a graceful dancer."
She glanced up at me, the light from the chandeliers glinting off her glasses. "My dad made me take two years of ballet," she confessed, rolling her eyes. "I hated every second of it, but I guess some of it stuck."
"Ballet?" I chuckled. "I can't picture it."
"Good," she said, and a small, genuine smile touched her lips. "No one should."
We fell into a comfortable silence after that. The music seemed to swell, wrapping around us, and the reception hall began to blur at the edges. The sounds of chatter and clinking glasses faded into a distant hum. All I was aware of was her. I noticed the way a stray strand of dark hair had escaped her ponytail, the faint, clean scent of her shampoo, the surprising intensity in her eyes when she finally met my gaze.
This wasn't a strategy. It wasn't a game to be analysed or won. It was something else entirely, something my usual logic couldn't touch. I held her a little closer as we moved to the music, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest. For the first time in my life, I was faced with a variable I couldn't quantify, a feeling I had no strategy for. And for some reason, I didn't want to find one.