Who's your daddy?

He's just sitting there, playing the piano while he waits for his long, lost – or just taking very incredibly long to arrive – love, who happens to be my mum and who happens to totally not deserve him. I mean, seriously, I'll list the reasons why they shouldn't be together:

a) Because he's way too young for her. He is like my age, only like two years older maybe. It's totally not fair that my mum can pick whoever she wants to marry and get her way all the time just because despite her age she's a pretty hot babe, and she's got like a heap of cash.

b) He's only marrying her out of pity. He is so nice, too nice, even. The kind of nice that will never let you know if he likes you or that he like-likes you.

c) The story she made up to get him is totally bogus. Her story was that she was so sick of all the fake men who came up, wanting to marry her, pledging their love to her – just for her money. When, even if that were true, she only married my dad for his money and then he died and she inherited it all.

So if that were the case. She'd be a total hypocrite.

d) Because I'm totally in love with him.

If this happened to anyone else but myself, I'd think them a total idiot for letting it happen in the first place. I mean, falling in love with your soon-to-be stepfather is like, really gross. Even if he's practically the same age and is sweet and nice and helps you out with your work for uni. I mean, it's like you just don't go there.

But I did, and I am. Going there, I mean. And there's nothing I can do about it. That's why I'm here, and not in the back of that limo with my mum where I should be (being the maid of honour, and all, but if you ask me it's not a very honourable position if you have me filling it. Because I'm likely to steal your groom if his name is Brock Rhodes). Because I'm making an attempt at stealing him. I just got to figure out how to do it.

Anyway, so he's just sitting there innocently, playing on his piano and humming under his breath, a smile at his lips and a twinkle in his eyes. He looks so cute in his tuxedo with the red rose in his left hand pocket along with his dorky glasses.

It's his fault, being so cute and all, that I'm going to steal him. I can't blame it on his niceness, because he's just nice to everyone like that, even mum's cat and she totally scratches him whenever he comes near her (the cat I mean, not mum. Although that wouldn't really surprise me either). He just keeps coming back bringing tuna-fish shaped treats and fancy feast. He never learns.

Brock suddenly stops playing, and then gets up from his chair at the piano. He scoots it in tidily and then turns around, and looks right at me. Oh crap. I've been spotted.

I should have known, he's like the most observant person I know. Well. Apart from matters of the heart, of course, because otherwise he'd know I'm completely and totally in love with him.

He smiles this silly smile I swear he saves just for teasing me (playfully of course, because Brock's never mean to anyone) and then walks over to the one window in the church that isn't stained, and then opens it a little, reaching out with his fingertips and touching my face, saying softly, "Who's your daddy?"

"Ugh." I say and lean away from his touch. Not that his touch isn't nice or anything like that, but because of what he just said. Him, my father? Ugh. Just plain ugh.

"Why aren't you with your mum, Valerie? Are you being a bad girl?" He wants to know, ignoring my leaning away and just leaning closer out the window so he can look me properly in the eyes. My eyes blink back at his, and his stare gently into mine, waiting for an explanation that's never going to come. Not in words.

"Maybe I am," I say with a shrug. Because well, maybe I am. In fact, I know I am. I'm being a bad girl and well, I really can't care less. I mean it's not like my mum's in love with him, or anything like that. She just likes him as some kind of accessory of sorts. Because he's pretty to look at. And he is pretty to look at, but that's not why I love him.

"You shouldn't be a bad girl Val," he says with a shake of his head, resting his elbows on the window sill and giving me a thoroughly disapproving look, "and definitely not on your mum's wedding day."

"Maybe I want to be," I say, and then I reach up and kiss him. He's so surprised he kisses me back, and as our lips move together a thousand butterflies burst into my stomach, and my lips twitch into a smile as I rub his cheeks with my thumbs.

But he brings it to a sudden stop, stepping away from my lips and touching his own, his eyes widening. "No, Valerie, you're going to make your mum very unhappy if you continue like this and you don't want to make your mum unhappy."

I look at him, press my lips together and give a quiet, "Okay."

I eye him a little while longer, and he eyes me right back, his lips agape, and his fingers still at them. I smile bitterly, thinking about all the times those fingers have grazed mine, leaning over to correct something I've written wrong, or to write something silly on my work to keep me going. All the times that those fingers have ran through his hair when he's trying to work something out to make everyone happy.

Even me. He always loves making me happy, but it's just too bad, because he loves making my mum happy, too – and this time he can't make the both of us happy, and I know who he's choosing. Mum.

I say, "Okay, goodbye," and then start to walk; only he calls after me, and just in time, mum arrives and calls out for me too. She looks so pretty, standing there in her snow white wedding dress (which is such a joke, she's no virgin) and her veil of matching colour. But what's not pretty is the look on her face.

"Oh my God, Valerie, there you are." She says her eyebrows rising up to their limit as she puts her hands on her hips and gives me the evil eye. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to come in the limousine with me, you silly." When I just look at her, not answering, she rolls her eyes and beckons for me with a hand. "Come here, love, don't ruin my day now. Let's go in and get me married!"

I just stare at her, pressing my lips together and keeping quiet. I guess if I didn't go in with her I'd be a little bit of a sore loser. I mean, she's won; it's only fair I give in and be the honourable maid of honour that I should be.

I sigh, and without another glance in Brock's direction (who is staring quite blatantly at me, wondering what I'm going to do, no doubt) I walk to my mum's side and smile.

"Sorry, I just had to make sure they got it right," I submit with a shrug, my heart not filled with butterflies anymore, but this strange, constricting feeling like someone's taken hold of it and did what that girl did to Bart Simpson's. "They did, it's very beautiful inside, I peeked through the window and everything's just the way you planned."

"Very well," she says and gives me an odd look, pushing me in front of her and then telling the other bridesmaids and the flower girl to hurry up and walk. And they do, and I walk behind them, trying not to stare at my feet as the flower girl pushes the church doors open, and steps inside, scattering cherry blossoms and little pink metallic hearts at the entrance.

Everyone looks to us and smiles. Because after all, isn't it such a lovely day? The sun is shining, the birds are singing and my mum is getting what she wants. Again.

I sigh and think, heck, why not smile and enjoy it? Make the most out of a bad situation, that's what my grandmother is always telling me. Although, she also tells me to follow my heart and look where that's gotten me.

Nonetheless I look forward and smile. The wedding music plays in the background, and people are gushing quietly and taking pictures. Everything really is beautiful and perfect in here. It's all an immaculate white and up above is a canopy filled with well wishes for the nearly newly wedded couple, and when he kisses her they will all fall down over us just as my mother planned.

I suck in my breath as the bridesmaids line up opposite Brock and his groomsmen, and then take my place opposite Brock's best man who smiles and winks at me suggestively, making a motion with his hand to call me which, if you ask me, is totally inappropriate and will now be forever replayed on the wedding video. Great.

My mother slips past me, a polite smile on her face of slight contentment and of being pleased. Pleased and content, that's how I want to be described on my wedding day. Not. I nearly scowl at her for her lack of caring about the man she's marrying, and the fact she'll never in her life deserve him but I just press my lips and hold it in.

If he wants to set himself up for a life like that, it's his problem and not mine.

Her pretty blonde hair bounces to a stop beside me and I feel so inadequate. I mean, for God's sake, she's like a Barbie doll and I'm well...I'm the doll they made one of, and then decided better of making any more. She's tall, blonde, pretty, and thin and she has these blue eyes that sparkle like the sun. I'm not like that.

I'm short, not thin, have long brown, boring hair and eyes that are the colour of the dirt outside the church.

Not that I've ever cared about that. Much. I mean, beauty is only skin deep, right? It's just hard to understand why someone like me can be born from someone like her. Personality wise and physically wise.

"We are here today to wed these two people," the priest starts in a droning, unemotional tone, adjusting his glasses and glancing between the two and raising his eyebrows before clearing his throat and carrying on.

I nearly smirk; obviously no one had informed the priest of the very large age gap between the two.

But that's where my amusement ends, I'm afraid, and I force my attention out the window and onto the grassy fields where we'll be taking our pictures afterwards among the spring flowers and such.

It's an undeniable fact that I feel ill. I mean, wouldn't you feel ill if your one true love is in love with your mum? And is marrying her? God, it's enough to make you want to vomit.

It's even worse because instead of his gaze being set lovingly on my mother like it should be, I can feel it on myself. It's not like it's a sure thing, but I'm not looking to him and seeing if he really is. I might kiss him again and that's totally inappropriate to do at your mum's – or anyone else's for that matter – wedding.

Annie, one of mum's bridesmaids, nudges me and whispers very, very low, "Does he have a lazy eye or something? Because he doesn't seem to be looking at your mother. He keeps looking at you. Like Christmas isn't coming, too. He looks dreadfully upset, dear."

Dreadfully upset my ass. It probably is lazy eye. He's way too nice to pull a stunt like stare at his fiancée's daughter at his wedding. I'll ask him, subtly of course, later at the dinner about it over an entrée. Food makes everything better.

"Speak now, or forever hold your peace," the priest says dryly and I blink.

"Anyone?" he insists.

Speak now or forever hold your peace. Huh. I bet that's how it goes. I mean, has anyone ever said anything – apart from on movies – when the priest asks that question? I don't think so. My gaze, accidentally, flickers to Brock and my mistake – because he's looking right at me.

I blink and shrink closer to my mother's side. His lips twitch downwards and he takes the tiniest of steps forward.

Say something he mouths at me and I blink again, my heart speeding up in disbelief. Say something? He wants me to say something? But he'd only do that if he didn't want to marry – no, of course he wants to marry my mum. I look away very quickly, but his words are still on my mind. Say something? Say something?

I can't say anything. Everyone here would hate me, and what if he isn't even mouthing that, like he's mouthing tooth paste and I misinterpret it? Okay, well that's not likely. But still. He could be mouthing something totally different and then I say something and ruin everything.

Not wanting to break tradition; I don't say anything.

"Then you may kiss the bride," the priest announces with a sigh and I swallow as my mother steps forward, a greedy smile on her face. I want to close my eyes, but I can't, it's like watching a train wreck and I can't look away for morbid curiosity.

I blink back tears in my eyes and press my lips together. He's going to kiss her; he's never kissed her – atleast from what I've seen. Oh God, why, why, why can't they just get it over with?

But as tears start to spill down my face and Brock steps forward, he instead of turning and kissing my mother, looks right at me. Panic makes me tense and I stare at him, wide-eyed, what is he going to do? Because he certainly doesn't look like he's going to kiss her.

My poor mother is standing there with her eyes closed and her lips puckered like a fish, waiting for him to kiss her. I nod towards her and shrink away even further but as I do he walks right around my mother and, to the astonishment of me and everyone else in the room, grabs me up in his arms and kisses me instead.

I shiver with pleasure and fright right at the same time. Pleasure because he's kissing me instead of her, and fright because of what she's going to do to me afterwards.

"Bad boy," I mouth against his lips shakily but he just laughs tremulously and tightens his grip on my waist as a hush spreads through the room and my mum whips her head around, going in a demanding voice,

"What is going on here?" and then she sees his lips on mine and his arms around me and her face starts to go purple with rage. Brock hears her words, and hears the venom in them, but his lips linger on mine longingly as my mum balls her hands into fists. All the messages in the nets above falling down over us.

Brock finally pulls his lips gently away from mine and sets me back down on the ground, looking around with conflicting emotions; pleasure, embarrassment, guilt and amusement.

"You," my mother hisses, and before Brock can step forward to protect me, she plants a whopper on my face. She slaps me so hard across the cheek, she leaves a hand print, and tears of sorrow that had stopped fill my eyes – only they're tears of pain.

I don't cry though. I kind of deserve it.

"You, you evil little child, I knew you'd steal him from me! You steal everything from me. The cherries in my fruit salad! My bobby pins! My shampoo!" she shrieks.

I hold up a hand to my cheek, and look around as she rants; everyone is silent, and everyone doesn't know what to say or think.

"You – you," she shakes her head, apparently not being able to come up with anything else, and tosses her hair in a very drama queen fashion, before attempting to stalk out of the wedding. Only the priest catches her wrist.

"Maybe you're better off with someone your own age," he says meaningfully, and my mum stares at him, opening and closing her mouth like a fish before coming across his meaning.

"What the." I say, widening my eyes, and go to share a look with Brock, only he's not in front of me anymore and is apologising to everyone at the wedding, especially his grandma who seems particularly distressed. I blink and look back to my mum, who's still looking at the priest, and blinking vapidly.

I don't know where to look. I don't know where's more interesting to look.

"Didn't you take some kind of vow of chastity?" my mum wants to know, blinking at him, shocked out of her anger. The priest however, smiles at her and reaches forward for her hand, his fingers outstretched. She looks down at his hand and then, bemusedly, holds hers out for him.

"My lady," he says and picks up her hand, kissing it. "Not all priests are chaste."

My mum blinks a little more, and then smiles, obviously charmed. Which is kind of strange, if you ask me. She's the one who usually does all the charming. "Oh. My mistake," she says with a giggle. "Pleased to meet you mister unchaste priest."

He winks at her and lets go of her hand and then they just stand there, staring not into each others eyes, but at each others figures, sizing each other up.

It's kind of gross, seeing someone check out your mum.

I look back to Brock and pick a note off the floor; unfolding it and watching him work his magic on the people in front of him in dazed amusement. He looks back at my mum, and back at the people, going to and from all of them, reassuring them everything was okay.

"I'm so sorry, this is a little embarrassing. But the important thing is no one is hurt. Because look," he gestures over his shoulder to where my mum's now flirting with the priest, batting her lashes and looking up to him from underneath them, twirling a blonde lock around a fingertip. "No one is hurt! Ha! Ha! Crazy kids!"

The people in the church seats don't look very comforted. But I know Brock is trying his best. Brock always tries his best, and that's one of the very many things that make him so cute.

"Well I for one am glad," I hear his mum say, "good for you, son. You found a cute girl your own age to mingle with. Now go mingle, and stop bothering the rest of us because frankly if this wedding is over –"

I hear my mum clearing her throat and Brock's mum, Annette, trails off and looks over to her. My mum stands, her hand getting very close with the priest's hand, with a smile full of solemnity, and looks over the crowd of people in the church, meeting the eye of every single one before speaking.

Brock turns around, too. Only instead of looking at my mum, he's looking at me, adoration in his eyes. I smile a little and look down at the note, pretending to read it but not really reading it. I feel his gaze boring into me and it's too intense for me to even think about reading the note.

My mum clears her throat again, and stares at me pointedly until I look up. When I do, she sends me a snooty look before turning her head to smile at everyone, opening her arms up in a welcoming kind of way, "Okay so the weddings off – thankyou for that, kids." She pauses for what I suppose is laughter, giving me a fake little smile.

But no one laughs. Because no one wants to offend anyone. And so she continues, looking back to them once more.

"But I've booked the after ceremony celebrations so you'll all just have to come and party with me and Paul," she looks to the priest at her side and smiles excitedly, "so no hard feelings everyone, and come as planned in a couple of hours at the Star Hotel, dance the night away and eat fantastic food."

She smiles and nods at everyone, and then, picking up the ends of her poofy dress walks out of the church, the priest following like a puppy dog after her. Everyone, all the guests, exchange glances with one another, and soon enough everyone else starts leaving. I look down at the note.

Have a happy and long marriage!

Love Germaine

I smile a little at it, and look up, only to find Brock standing right in front of me, rose from his jacket pocket in his hands as he peers down at the note. "Oops, that wish didn't come true." He looks up and grins, ushering with the rose again. I take it, not being able to believe my luck.

I turn the rose over in my hands, blushing faintly. "Why me?" I want to know, watching the rose and petals spin before bringing it to my nose, and breathing it all in heavily. I love roses, they smell, and look, the best. The flower he gives makes me think of an analogy.

He goes to speak before me, but I interrupt, quietly. "This rose," I bring it from my nose and wave it in his face, smiling, "is like my mum, and me...? I'm just like a common weed, like a daffodil. I'm nothing compared to her."

I feel Brock's gaze on mine, and I look into it. But what I see is actually anger. Brock looks angry at me. He shakes his head, taking the rose off me and tossing it to the floor, "Roses are nice, but you're a wildflower," he points out a window, "a wildflower like all those pretty ones outside. When spring comes, you spread over the fields and anyone who sees you smiles."

I roll my eyes, "You're so cheesy you know that. You could be a greeting card."

He ignores me, "and I like wild."

I smile up at him, shaking my head, and he grins down at me. "Will you be my girlfriend, Valerie?" I look up at him and wrinkle my nose, tapping my chin and hmm-ing. He nudges me with his elbows and I heave a sigh.

"Okay fine, I'll be your 'girlfriend', gees," I concede. His face fills with mischief and I narrow my eyes at him, wondering what he's thinking. It's never good when he gets that look in his eyes. It's never, ever good. It usually means it's tickle time.

Tickle time is a time invented by the devil himself. Each and every day, since he thought it up so ingeniously, he picks a time during that day to give me a random attack of the tickles. From the look on his face, now is time.

I back away from him, shaking my head and not being able to help smiling, "Oh no you don't," I say, still shaking my head but he grins at me, following as I walk backwards, taking a step for every one I take until I'm backed up into the wall. My breath catches in my throat, and I look up at him. His hands are poised.

"Oh for God's sakes just kiss her again," I hear my mum cry and I jump, looking over to the door. She's trying to look cranky at me. "I'll be in the limousine, and you two will get in within ten minutes please." She closes the church doors and I look back up to Brock who's looking at me all sweet and seriously.

"You heard her. We better get out of here; it'll take us a whole ten minutes to walk to that limousine." I joke, laughing half heartedly.

Brock presses his lips down on mine once more and he whispers into them, "You're the prettiest, most intelligent little angel that I've ever met."

"And you're cheesy," I tease and he glares at me. He hates my always ruining the moment, as he calls it. I used to ruin very platonic moments before, and he hated that too. "But I do so love you," I add quickly and it seems all his forgiven because he presses his lips back on mine again, weaving his hands through my hair, sending tingles of all kinds through my entire body.

I smile into the kiss and he gently pulls away. "I would make a really bad dad."

"I think you'd make a good one. Only honey; no kissing the kids like this. Save it for me." I tease with a wink and he chuckles, hands falling from my hair, and one taking my hand in his and squeezing.

"Let's go party," he says.

"Let's," I agree.

Tried to learn my body to the latest hit – someone called the nurse thought I was having a fit!

Ah. I loves that song. I wonder what's happening next gossip girl ep. Can you believe we have to wait till January five for it? That really sucks. I hope Chuck gets better but it's kind of fun seeing him go psycho at people.

And poor Blaire! She finally works up the guts to say those three words, and Chuck's all "Too bad.". Which I guess is understandable, she said them on his father's funeral and he's kind of a mess. Oh well. I loves Blaire.

You know you love me,

Xoxo.

Ps. Going to see Twilight tomorrow!