Is that doubt I hear? Just because I can’t make it down the aisle for my own weddings doesn’t mean I’ll do something stupid at hers. Does it? “You don’t have to butter me up. I already told you I’d make as many as you need.” I pause and meet her gaze. “And you know I’ll be there.”

“Yeah, I know. So what’s up with the mistletoe back here?” Ami points toward the little green sprig above the counter.

I laugh. “It’s not Christmas without mistletoe, but since no one ever comes back here, I figure I’m pretty safe.”

She smiles. “I should have known. You and your relationship safety nets.” She ducks her head and touches the back of her hair in a way I recognize.

Something in her tone makes me set the ornament on the work counter. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure you’re okay with being my maid of honor?” Her eyes bore through me with the penetrating power of Superman’s X-ray vision.

How many more times will we go over this? “Yep.” I retrieve the ornament and start painting again.

She snatches a stool from the counter and perches beside me. “You still having … the Dream?”

Sigh. So much for her taking the hint. Ever since I caught my first fiancé kissing his ex-girlfriend at the wedding rehearsal, I’ve had the Dream at least once a month. It didn’t go away even when I was engaged briefly to Ami’s older brother, Nathan. And it’s been more frequent since we mutually broke off our obvious—to everyone but us—rebound engagement. One day, in a weak moment, I told Ami about the Dream—how everything seems perfect until I get halfway to the front of the church; then I turn and sprint back down the aisle. I always wake up out of breath and shaking. And I just had it again a couple of nights ago. “Why yes, Dr. Phil, I am. But I’m ignoring it.”

She gives me her best Dr. Phil grin. “And how’s that working for you?”

I pretend to spill my coffee on her, but she doesn’t even move. “Fine. It’s working just fine for me.”

She holds up her hands. “Okay, subject dropped. Other than worrying about the Dream, do you really want to be in the wedding?”

“Who else is going to be your maid of honor? Garrett?” The three of us have been best friends since early childhood. But I picture six-foot-two, former-football-player Garrett holding a bouquet and smiling. “Mark’s already claimed him as the best man. Besides, he’d look pretty funny in that gorgeous green dress. It would match his eyes perfectly, wouldn’t it?”

She gives me the look—the one she uses on her third graders when she wants the truth and she wants it now.

Am I dreading standing by my best friend as she marries the man she loves? No way. Does my crazy recurring dream have me a little paranoid about messing up Ami’s wedding? Um, yeah. Is there a small part of me that wishes I was the bride walking down the holly-lined aisle, without reservation, to meet my perfect guy? Oh, come on, I’m human.