by Julia Kent
Weddings are the opposite, it seems. Stiff and regal, we create fairy tales out of uncomfortable traditions.
And fabric.
Mallory and Hasty's mother, Sharon, is a total sweetheart. Kind and good-natured, she's nothing like either of her daughters when it comes to managing details. Mallory is nearly OCD about certain specifics, while Hasty runs her life like it's one big project management checklist. A born delegator, Hasty is all about being the boss.
Which is great, when she is the boss.
In regular life? Not so much.
“When Burke and I got married...” I overhear her say for the third time as Raye stifles an eye roll and reaches for a second mimosa. A huge wave of sadness hits me as I miss Perky something fierce.
Feeling sheepish but not caring, I pivot around a big, white pillar and grab my phone.
You're missed here. If Hasty mentions her wedding to Burke one more time...
Perky texts back, I'm on my way.
Ha ha, I wish.
No–really! Flight cancelled. Plane had mechanical failure. Give me twenty minutes in this Uber and I'll be there. It was going to be a surprise!
Before I can answer, I'm interrupted.
“Fiona, how are you doing with your newfound success?” Hasty purrs, hugging me like I'm a talisman she can touch to bring good luck. A mover and shaker, Hasty is drawn to attention and drama, as long as it gives her leverage and helps her move up in society.
“I'm fine. Happy to pay off my student loans and see children's groups getting a million dollars.”
“That's it? That's all anyone gave you? Small reward for putting your life on the line.”
“I'd have done it for nothing.”
“Pushovers always say that.”
“So do preschool teachers. Occupational hazard!” I chirp. Years ago, I figured out the best way to get under Hasty's skin, other than calling her Hasty. Like me, she hates her nickname.
She hates having her putdowns met with positivity.
“Altruism doesn't have to be divorced from money,” she sniffs. “Corporate altruism is a thing.”
“How?” Raye asks pleasantly, a little crinkle at the bridge of her nose adorable and simultaneously a bit threatening. “The entire mission of a corporation is to provide profits for shareholders. What does altruism have to do with that?”
Hasty gives a haughty huff. “Plenty of corporations have philanthropic divisions, Rayelyn.”
“You didn't say philanthropy. You said altruism. The words have different meanings,” Raye points out.
“I know what they mean,” Hasty replies in a voice so cold, it could be used in a cryogenics lab.
“Then–”
“These mimosas are delicious!” Sharon interrupts, nearly elbowing Hasty as she inserts herself between her daughter and Raye. “I wonder what that extra flavor is?”
“A mimosa is literally two ingredients, Mom,” Hasty declares, half disgusted. “Orange juice and Champagne.”
“Then the extra flavor must be joy, because I love having both my girls here with me, and all of you lovelies as well.”
Hasty deflates slightly.
“Actually, good palate, Sharon,” Bettina says smoothly. “We put the tiniest drop of pomegranate syrup in our mimosas, for a hint of something special.”
Sharon gives Hasty a look that shuts her up.
“Fiona!” she says, turning to me, letting Hasty off the hook. “Halloween is almost here. That must be so much fun as a preschool teacher!”
“It is,” I agree. “I get to dress up in costumes and run around having fun.”
“What are you this year?” Sharon asks.
“Internet famous,” Hasty mutters.
“A pineapple.”
“How cute! Will you dye your hair yellow?” Sharon's interest in my costume seems to piss Hasty off.
So I stretch this out.
“Oh, I love that idea, Sharon!”
She beams, then her smile drops. “After the terrible attack, your classroom needs something cheerful. How are the children?”
It occurs to me that very few people ask me that question. How are the children? So far, they've been fine, but Mattie's most negatively affected.
Before I can start to explain, unfortunately, Bettina appears.
“Hastings, Raye, and Fiona? We have your dresses over here,” she says, gesturing to a back hallway. “While you’re trying them on, we'll get Mallory ready for her dresses. This is going to be so much fun!”
Sharon's hand presses on my wrist. “We'll catch up later. I really do want to make sure you're fine.” A quick side hug from her makes me relax.
Or maybe it's the mimosa.
Pretty sure it's the little bit of Mom love.
We form a line, Hasty in front, me next, Raye last, our high heels silent on the ivory carpet. Each of our separate dressing rooms has our respective dress on a mannequin, a new experience for me. I stand behind it and unzip the dress, moving the spaghetti straps over the mannequin's shoulders, wondering how this works.
Do I put the dress back on the mannequin when I'm done? Do I hang it on the single hanger on a long horizontal pole to the right of the mirror? Do I go out to the bigger fitting area and show my dress? Mallory's voice carries down the hall as she excitedly talks to Sharon about some special guest book made from pressed bamboo pulp.
The dress is exquisitely simple, each of us in the same style, but each a slightly different earth tone. Mine is a gossamer pink, like a Himalayan salt lamp in fabric form. When Mal told me my color, Perky smirked, as if the two had some secret joke about salt lamps I didn't understand.
Once I slip into the dress, though, I don't care.
It's perfect.
“Oh!” I hear Raye exclaim next door. “Wow! This fits perfectly.”
“Of course it does,” Hasty calls back. “It's tailored.”
Raye's tone changes. “Then the seamstress is at the top of her field, because this is the best tailoring I've ever had done. I sent pictures and my measurements, and she had a Skype call with me because she was nervous about the specifics, so I'm impressed!”
I don't mention that this is the only tailoring I've ever had done.
Tap tap tap.
“Fiona? How's the fit? I'm Lana, the seamstress.” Her voice is lightly accented and pleasant.
“It's perfect!”
“May I check?”
“Sure.”
The door opens, a woman with dark, clearly dyed black hair walking in, smiling wide, her red lips stretched across a broad jaw, eyes surrounded by deep wrinkles from years of being friendly. Her hands touch me across my shoulders, my waist, and a rapid series of movements leads to a satisfied nod.
She departs as quickly as she arrived.
In her wake, I stare at myself in the mirror, hearing the chatter of my friends around me. Perky's talking about Parker's apartment and what it'll be like to redecorate his living room with beanbags. Mallory's telling her mother all about how Will wants to alternate holidays with her family and his, in Florida.
They're talking about houses. Lives. Even children.
They're all more anchored, more settled, more adult than I am.
A creepy-crawly feeling starts in my stomach, radiating out to the third chakra, making it creak and groan as it tries to move. I'm stuck, aren't I? Unlike my friends, I haven't integrated my past into my present, which means I can't really see the future. Or move toward it.
Does the future have thick forearms and kind, wide eyes that tell me to breathe?
Does the future smell like salt and soap and coffee and kiss with his whole body?
Does the future sit in a car outside my preschool classroom to sooth the worries of a tiny boy?
Does the future vibrate on a higher plane that I'm too stuck in my old patterns to feel?
Tap tap tap I hear next to me, then the seamstress has the same conversation with Raye she had with me, but as they speak, I tune out the words, my palms s
moothing the dress I'm wearing, my legs turning weak.
We're all dressed in form-fitting, elegant bridesmaids dresses to stand at the front of a church with our friend, to welcome her across the threshold of a new life with the man she loves. Mallory will commit herself for all her remaining days with Will, their love a testimony to something greater than each of them as individuals. The energy they radiate will potentiate and strengthen the whole world.
“PERKY!!” Mallory shouts from down the hall, her scream followed by shrieks.
Hasty, Raye, and I poke our heads out of our respective fitting rooms.
“Oh, goody,” Hasty mutters from two fitting rooms over.
“Do we go out there?” I ask, still in my dress, admiring the cut.
“We're not the ones on display today,” Hasty says with a grunt and the sound of fabric brushing against itself. “Mallory is. This is just a pro forma fitting to make sure our dresses are fine. Don't gain any weight for the next eight months!”
Raye and I ignore that.
I undress, careful not to pop stitches, and replace the dress on the mannequin. It feels foreign, like I'm a little girl playing dress up, like one of my four year olds pretending to be a princess.
As I take in my friends (including Hasty, who isn't even close to being a friend, but I'll be charitable), I can't help but compare. They're sleek and smart, confident and centered.
So are you, my wise self whispers deep inside. Release that which does not serve you.
My shoulders drop. Tension rolls off me like rain.
I can release anything that holds me back.
Including this grudge against Fletch.
Mallory is spending the rest of her life with a man she's loved from afar – and, now, near – for most of her life.
What kind of man will I spend most of my remaining life with, if I'm lucky enough to find him? Where will we live together? Is he going to respect my values? Broker in kindness as his primary goal in all interactions? Will he understand that my teaching is a calling, a divine message that the lessons I must learn in this life come from the children entrusted to me?
What will our children look like?
What will our shared love feel like?
How will I meet my life partner? My soulmate? My true love?
What if you already have? my wise self whispers.
I stare into the mirror, my own eyes latched onto their reflection, the gaze deepening as those words ring out in my mind.
What if you already have?
Giggles a few dressing rooms over snap me out of the daze I'm in, Perky being a rabble-rouser, the laughter infectious.
“Let's see the bride!” she calls out.
As I walk back down the hall, I see Perky sipping a mimosa. Mallory is inside a dressing room, saying something to Sharon, who stands in the doorway wearing the look of an eager squirrel that just found a stash of nuts.
“There is nothing better than spreading your legs, lifting one up, and kicking as hard as possible with all your core,” Perky says, looking at me with a funny expression.
“Are we talking about kickboxing or sex?” Mallory calls out. “What kind of sex are you having if it involves kicking?”
“Don’t judge me.”
“Edgy,” Hasty intones, forcing Perky to glare at her. “How is Parker these days, when he's not at the mercy of your violence?”
“How did you know about the bite marks?”
She reddens, opening her mouth to respond.
“Shhhh,” Sharon says, surprising Hasty, who seems stunned that her mother would reprimand her.
Then Mallory steps out of her bride's fitting room, and we all gasp.
Tears fill my eyes at the sight of Mallory in a fitted ivory lace gown that flares out at the knee into a dramatic mermaid train, her fiery red hair setting off her creamy skin against the color. The dress is a modern cut, her full figure an ideal form for the nipped waist, the wider hips, and the lush form-fitting bodice that dips between her breasts. Sheer illusion sleeves appliquéed with lace frame her shoulders, creating a look that somehow manages to be both tastefully modest and dead sexy.
Raye and I exchange a look that digs ninety-seven layers deep in an instant, burrowing back in time to middle and high school, when we knew Hasty all too well.
There are many insults on the tip of Mallory's sister's tongue, and we can imagine them all:
* * *
That dress will look wonderful once you've lost fifteen more pounds.
No–make it twenty.
You always look washed out in white, but a good make-up artist can fix that.
Off-the-shoulder dresses are soooo 2018.
* * *
Bracing ourselves, we're ready.
Hasty stands, reaching for Mallory's hands, holding them out and looking her up and down with a teary smile that must be about the booze, right?
And then she reaches for Mallory in an embrace, whispering, “You look so beautiful, Mallory. Will is a lucky man.”
Raye, Perky and I exchange shocked looks.
“Who took out Hasty's true chip and replaced it with a benevolent program?” Perky quips.
I elbow her. “She's beautiful. Let's focus on that.”
“Will is going to cream his pants when he sees you,” Perky declares.
“So classy,” Hasty murmurs, though she's still smiling at Mal.
“You look gorgeous,” I gush, eyeing Mallory, who smiles at me. “I can't believe you're really getting married!”
“I know!” Perky wails. “It's going to change everything!”
Everything is changing.
Everyone is changing.
Everyone but me.
Within ten seconds we're a sobbing, gushing mess. Bettina offers tissues and little squares for patting under our eyes and catching mascara runs. She has everything. I suspect, in a pinch, the woman can make a sterile field on an end table and perform the Whipple procedure if someone needs it.
Anyone in the wedding business has to be prepared for all things dramatic.
It's like preschool, only you don't have the benefit of nap time.
On the other hand, you have mimosas.
“I love Will so, so much!” Mallory gushes as we all cry.
“He's perfect for you,” Raye says. “Always has been. He just needed time to figure that out.”
“Look at you! The first of us to get married!” Mallory chokes back, hugging Raye. “You and Sanni are so happy.”
“We are.” Her eyes cut over to Bettina and Sharon. We all know she's married to a woman, but you never know how the older crowd will react. Bettina's somewhere between an older millennial and a younger Boomer, so...
“I can't wait to meet Sanni. Why didn't you bring her here?” Mal's mom asks.
Raye smiles, the expression hiding all of the reactions she was prepared to call to the forefront, just in case. “I didn't think it was the right thing to do. Spouses aren't in the wedding party, right?”
“No, of course not. Imagine Burke here!” Sharon titters.
Hasty looks like she swallowed her mimosa flute.
Recovering quickly, though, she points through the glass storefront and says, “Hot damn, that is one fine set of legs on that biker.”
We all turn to gawk, because while we are a bunch of enlightened millennial feminists, we're not untouched by beauty.
Except the fine set of legs belongs to someone I know all too well.
“Fletch?” Mallory squeaks, laughing as we all realize the hot set of carved muscles in tight bike shorts we're ogling is my–
My what?
“He's the one you did that photo shoot with. The video on Instagram of you two sparring was viral gold,” Hasty croons.
“Nothing's as good as Perky's tits,” I blurt out, earning a glare from my friend, who shares the love with Hasty.
“Quit saying that word,” Perky hisses.
“What word? Tits?” Hasty repeats with relish.
“
Stop,” Perky mutters.
It seems to charge Mallory's sister. “Mmmm, he's fine. Too bad I'm married.” She eyes Fletch like a hungry praying mantis looking for her next head to eat.
“Burke wouldn't give you a hall pass for good old Fletch?” Perky snarks.
“A hall pass?” Sharon asks, completely unaware of subtext. “Like in high school?”
“Exactly like in high school, Mom,” Mallory jumps in just as Fletch, completely oblivious to being turned into eye candy, pulls on the hem of his shirt, angling it up to wipe his brow, showing off a torso of well-honed, perfectly curved washboard abs, and a happy trail that would send me hiking down it every night.
Every. Single. Night.
Sharon sounds deeply confused as she asks, “Why would someone need a hall pass–”
“Fletch!” Hasty shouts from the doorway, waving him over. He's chaining his bike to a rack in front of the coffee shop next door. All slick and sweat, he comes over with soaking hair, a big, bemused grin, and a body chiseled by a sculptor whose muse must have worked for Sports Illustrated in another life.
The Julian Edelman Body Issue has just been kicked to my number two favorite thing to look at.
No! No! I can't objectify him like this.
Well, I can.
I just feel like I shouldn't.
“Hey. Hastings, right? Mallory's older sister? What are you–” The second his eyes land on me, the confusion disappears. “Wedding dresses. Right. How's it going?”
Mallory disappears in a swoosh of fabric, Sharon on her heels, gushing about how gorgeous she is, Mal dissecting some specific detail about how the shoulder dart is off on the left side.
“We're debating whether Perky's tits or your photo shoot kiss is better viral material. What do you think?” Hasty asks, leaning against the doorway, making me hate her more and more with each word out of her mouth.
“I think this is one of those moments when a man knows that keeping his mouth shut is the safest response,” Fletch says smoothly, eyes on Sharon Monahan, who gives him a thumbs up.
“You got yourself a smart one,” she says to me with a nudge.
“No, Mom, I told you. Fletch and Fiona aren't dating,” Mallory reminds her.
“I know. They told me at the Leaf Peeper festival.” Sharon's knowing grin reminds me of Jolene.
