Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?

by Melissa Senate

  Noah gave a little wave to the gaggle of Wowers.

  Devlin eyed him up and down. “We’ll have to lose the Burberry. The Modern Bride’s fiancé needs to be strictly metrosexual.”

  There were once-overs and nods, and in less than a minute, Noah’s heavy tan trench coat was replaced by the proprietor’s black suede jacket. Devlin offered Noah his ridiculous eyeglasses, which the King of Pretentious confessed were for show only when Noah pointed out that his vision was twenty-twenty.

  Devlin wrinkled his nose at Noah’s pants. “We’ll shoot from the waist up. The black pants are okay, but they’re a little too ‘midtown.’”

  Devlin was lucky that Noah wasn’t the type to punch him out.

  Astrid was picking over every inch of Noah. “All right, Groom of the Modern Bride. Let’s have a look at you. Spin around twice, please.”

  Noah spun. As a guy who staked out UFOs in mayors’ backyards, Noah couldn’t possibly be surprised by anyone. Acid O’Connor, in her minuscule eyeglasses and orange cashmere wrap, barely fazed him.

  She eyed him from head to toe, stopping midsection to peer at his tie—many tiny Morticia Addamses today. “Yes, I would say you’re now Modern Bride-worthy,” Astrid affirmed.

  Well, well. The tie got to stay. Score one for Morticia.

  The proprietor was beaming. “It’s my pleasure to welcome Wow Weddings to Round Rings Jewelry Emporium. We’re delighted to be participating in the magazine’s Today’s Bride feature. And to that end, we’ve selected two display cases that feature rings we feel best reflect our ring salon and the clientele we’d like to cultivate.”

  He placed the cases onto the tiniest desk I’d ever seen. Noah and I and the Wow staff crowded around and peered at the rings.

  “This case is hers and that case is his,” the man said.

  If he hadn’t made that distinction, I wouldn’t have known the difference.

  Noah eyed the rings in the his case. “Is that rust?” he whispered to me.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “It’s a special finishing process,” the proprietor said, pronouncing the “o” in process like pro. “It’s one of our most popular bands.”

  Noah coughed. “I was thinking something simple. Gold or silver, simple band.”

  The proprietor looked at him quizzically. “We don’t do simple, sir.”

  In Noah’s display case were twelve rings, one more bizarre than the next. There was a rusted zigzag. A square with tiny diamonds that spelled out peace. A triangle whose point hit the knuckle.

  No. No. And more no.

  It was one thing to have the word Peace spelled out on a veil I’d wear for a few hours; it was another to have it on the wedding ring I’d wear for the rest of my life.

  “Um, I can’t see these going with my engagement ring,” I said.

  The proprietor didn’t blink. “Don’t you worry about that—you’ll simply move your ring to your right hand. That’s what brides do when they fall madly in love with a ring that doesn’t blend with their diamond.”

  I had to restrain myself from laughing in his face.

  Noah held up a thin square band with an inlet of bronze. “I guess this one is okay.”

  The proprietor looked disappointed. “It’s our most traditional piece, but if it’s what you like…”

  “I’ll take the bride’s version,” I said.

  Astrid sighed. “Perhaps the Modern Bride and her groom can take another look at the displays.”

  The Modern Bride has seen enough.

  I feigned a look at the rings and picked up the hers version of Noah’s. “Yes indeedy, this is my choice. You, Noah?”

  “I’m very happy with the one I picked,” he said.

  The proprietor nodded. “The selections are fine with me. The rings may be our least avant-garde, yet they’re sure to lure modern brides to our Web site and to visit our shops nationwide.”

  Ha! Sure to lure modern brides anywhere but Round Rings.

  “Um, what metal is this, anyway?” I asked.

  The proprietor smiled. “It’s a special blend of metals.”

  “Whoa,” Noah said, peering at the tiny sticker inside the ring. “This ring is nine thousand dollars?”

  “The bride’s is twelve thousand, seven hundred,” said the proprietor.

  But I could have found this myself at the scrap yard.

  “I’ve saved the best news for last,” Astrid announced. “We’ve secured two celebrities to model a selection of Round Rings for the feature!”

  “Fabulous,” the proprietor exclaimed with a little clap of his hands, and off he and Astrid went to sign papers.

  But we hate these rings, I wanted to yell at them. We have to wear these for the rest of our lives and we hate them!

  Devlin and his assistant began setting up their equipment. “Okay, Modern Bride and Groom. Let’s shoot a roll with you two entering the shop, expectant smiles on your faces. You’ll beeline straight for the display case and both reach for Eloise’s ring at the same time, making happy, surprised faces. You’ll then ooh and aah at the ring on Eloise’s finger, then do the same for the Modern Groom’s ring.”

  Devlin shooed Noah and me outside.

  “It’s freezing out here,” Noah said.

  I made faces at Devlin to hurry up.

  Finally, he waved us in.

  “Back outside, please,” Devlin said. “You didn’t look thrilled enough when you came in.”

  Oh, God.

  Fifteen minutes later, my toes frostbitten and Noah’s ears bright red, Devlin was satisfied with our fake expressions.

  “Modern Bride,” said Devlin, “beam with delight as you pick up your wedding ring and slowly slide it on your—”

  “Eloise,” Astrid interrupted, “move your engagement ring to your right hand.”

  I pulled off the diamond ring—for the first time since Noah slid it on—and was flooded with relief.

  Whoa.

  I slid it back on.

  Instant panic. A call for Tums.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  “Eloise, your other right hand,” Devlin said with a snort.

  I took off the ring—again, blissful relief—and slid it on the fourth finger of my right hand. Where it didn’t belong. The relief remained.

  I glanced at Noah, who was politely half smiling as he awaited his big photographic moment. Polite, supportive Noah, who’d come home early from his business trip just to be there when I got home. Wonderful, sweet, kind, good-looking Noah, who was edging toward being five minutes late for a press conference Robert De Niro was holding in Tribeca.

  “Eloise, put on the wedding ring, please,” Devlin scolded. “We’ve got to finish up. The Classic Bride’s shoot at Circle of Love jewelers is set for four.”

  Philippa’s wedding ring would be gorgeous. A beautiful, simple, classic gold band, perhaps accented by baguettes. She got a circle of love; I got scrap metal.

  “Eloise…” Devlin muttered.

  Noah tapped me on the nose.

  I hadn’t realized I was staring into space. I slid on the wedding ring, waiting for my stomach to roll, waiting for the panic, Tums at the ready in my pocket.

  Turned out the ring was so ridiculous that it didn’t bother me one bit.

  I was on my way home from Round Rings (Noah had sped off to the press conference) when Jane called from one of those huge stores in which everything costs under ten dollars. She’d been searching every shoe shop and department store for red, white and blue shoes for her bridal party, when she passed the dollar store and spied in the window a pair of white pleather pumps with a tiny American flag on the heel. Price: $4.99. She wanted to hold a mini Flirt Night Round Table for our opinions on whether or not Ina would consider super-ridiculous bargain-bin shoes a hostile gesture.

  Over hot chocolates and s’mores (complete with a lit candle to melt the marshmallows between the graham crackers and the chocolate bar. Yum!) in DT*UT, our favorite coffee lounge, A
manda and I (Natasha and Summer were visiting Grandma and Grandpa) advised Jane to tell Ina that she’d found them on sale in Bloomingdale’s.

  Amanda stuck her marshmallow in the little fire. “Tell Ina the salesman said if you bought them any closer to July Fourth, they’d be two hundred bucks.”

  Jane pulled one of the shoes out of the huge plastic shopping bag (the shoes didn’t even come in boxes) and placed it on our table. “She won’t know this cost $4.99 from a dollar store?”

  “Trust me,” I assured her. “Only our feet will know the difference.”

  Jane and Amanda laughed, and we built our s’mores.

  “You’re sure they’re not too ridiculous?” Jane asked, eyeing the tiny flag on the heel.

  “They’re almost cute,” I said. “Though the flag’s missing around forty-five stars.”

  Amanda smiled. “Besides, what are bridesmaids for? For torturing, that’s what. Aren’t we proving that by wearing rubber dresses at Eloise’s wedding?”

  “Just think,” Jane said, sipping her hot chocolate. “When these shoes are on your feet, I’ll be married. Isn’t that wild? Eloise, you’ll already be married for months at my wedding.”

  “You novices,” Amanda said. “I’m an old married woman.”

  For the past twenty minutes, I’d been on ring-twist alert, and neither Jane nor Amanda had even touched their rings. Meanwhile, every time I looked down at my ring, my right hand was on it, tugging away.

  I ate the last crumb of my s’more. “Okay, Flirt Night Round Table Discussion 1, 000, 002—how do you know?”

  “How do we know what?” Jane asked.

  “That your guys are it? That Ethan and Jeff are the one? How do you know?”

  Amanda leaned close. “Don’t kill me for saying this. But it’s just like they tell you—you just know.”

  “But what does that really mean?” I asked. “I need specifics.”

  “It means you know you’re home,” Jane said, tucking her brown hair behind her ear. “It means he is home. He feels like your family. You feel absolutely comfortable. You know you’ll get the truth, but with support. You know you’ll argue, but that you’ll both be there the next morning. It means love.”

  “And jackass in-laws,” Amanda put in.

  “Hear, hear,” I agreed. “That I do know.”

  “I really like Ethan’s family,” Jane said.

  “Yeah, because they’re in Texas,” Amanda pointed out.

  “Jeff’s family is in Louisiana,” I reminded her.

  Amanda groaned. “They might as well be at the next table.”

  “Eloise, are you having doubts again?” Jane asked.

  Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No.

  I don’t know.

  I groaned again. “One day I’m so sure that he’s it, the absolute one, and I’m so happy about getting married. And then I get the heartburning doubts.”

  “Cold feet,” Jane said.

  “Jitters,” Amanda offered.

  “But how do I know they’re not more than that?” I asked. “How do I know I don’t have a case of ‘Your body is trying to tell you not to marry this guy. He’s not the one. Run!’”

  Jane laughed. “Because Noah is the one.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve never seen you like this, Eloise,” Jane said. “I’ve known you for eight years, and I’ve never seen you so yourself.”

  “Myself? What are you talking about? I’ve never felt so not myself.”

  “I know what she means, Eloise,” Amanda said. “And I think I know what you mean, too. Noah’s changed you. You do love him and he is the one, so you’ve been forced to—I don’t know, deal with stuff, lose the defense mechanisms, that kind of thing. You’ve dated all these guys who couldn’t possibly be the one. And then you met Noah and he fit like a glove, and all your defense mechanisms went blickety-black.”

  “Blickety-black?” I asked.

  “Kapooey,” Jane defined.

  Amanda whipped her long blond hair forward over one shoulder and braided it, then whipped it back. “Case in point, Eloise—you met Noah, and two years later you’re looking for your father—with your brother, no less.”

  “Before you were engaged, we didn’t even know about your father,” Jane said gently.

  “Now, you’re the you-est you’ve ever been,” Amanda said. “No, you’re on your way to being your you-est. It’s like you’ve been blown wide open.”

  “Great, so Noah’s blown me wide open. When he leaves, I’ll be like Humpty Dumpty—all the king’s horses and all the king’s men won’t be able to put me back together again.”

  “You’re not broken, Eloise,” Jane said. She wasn’t one to mix metaphors. “Broken and blown wide open are two very different things. Broken, bad and sad. Open, good and gooder. And besides, where’s Noah going?”

  “When it’s over,” I clarified.

  “When what’s over?” Amanda asked.

  “Us, me and Noah.”

  “Eloise, why would it ever be over?” Jane asked. “You’re getting married.”

  “Do you think there’s a class at the Learn It Center in remedial relationships?” I asked. “I’d like to sign up for a double session.”

  Jane laughed. “I’m not saying life comes with guarantees, Eloise. God knows, we both know it doesn’t. But just because ‘this and that’ doesn’t mean Noah’s going to just walk out on you one day.”

  Then why do I check the closet every morning to make sure his at-the-ready bag is still there instead of a note? And when he’s away on a trip, why do I look at the spot where the bag should be and cry and worry that he won’t come home?

  “Because you’re scared out of your mind about losing him,” Jane said.

  I stared up at her.

  Jane squeezed my hand. “No, you didn’t say it aloud, but I know what you were thinking.”

  It was what I was always thinking.

  I kissed her hand. “Why can’t I just marry you?”

  Jane and Amanda laughed.

  “To lesbians,” Amanda said, holding up her mug. “They get to marry the women they love—well, in some places, anyway.”

  We clinked.

  In addition to my and Philippa’s Why I Said Yes! columns, Astrid was running two additional Why I Said Yes! pieces so that readers wouldn’t feel cheated of their regular monthly features. According to Astrid’s warped view, because Philippa and I were getting free dream weddings, readers would consider us on a par with celebrities; therefore, she still wanted the “common bride’s” perspective for her “common readership.”

  One of the “common bride’s” columns was in my in-box for an accompanying graphic. It was so stupid and offensive that I understood immediately why Astrid had chosen it. “Provocative points of view ensure that our readers will rant and rave to their friends, to online wedding-discussion groups and in letters to the magazine,” Astrid had announced a hundred times when a staffer ranted and raved about how offensive an article or column was. “It’s instant publicity. It gets Wow on daytime talk shows.”

  I wouldn’t be surprised to find Astrid and June’s common bride, Julie G., twenty-seven, of Atlanta, Georgia, on The View, defending her misguided perspective. In one thousand wasted words, Julie described how she had said yes because she’d finally reached her goal of losing eleven pounds (eleven instead of ten just so she’d be able to enjoy a single M&M without panicking) and was now, at five feet six inches tall, a svelte size four and one hundred ten pounds.

  “And I owe it all to Jim. Thanks to him gently calling me Tubby and wagging his finger when I reached for the cookie jar and letting me know in no uncertain terms that no weight loss equaled no marriage proposal, I’m now going to be Mrs. Skinny Bride!”

  That was a direct quote, I kid you not. And it would jump out, literally, because it was exactly the quote Astrid wanted highlighted for bolded quote that captured the spirit of the column.

  Instead of designing a graphic to
accompany Mrs. Skinny Bride’s column, I clicked on Word and typed Why I Said Yes! by Eloise Manfred.

  I said yes because Noah is home. Figuratively speaking, of course.

  And that was true. Noah was home. He did feel like family. I was completely comfortable. But, argument or no argument, I didn’t know that Noah would be there in the morning.

  Which was the problem. Noah wasn’t home. In the literal sense.

  “Eloise, did you ever stop to think that you chose Noah because he’s never home?” Jane had asked last night at the coffee lounge.

  “I chose him because he’s not home?” I repeated. “Huh?”

  Jane had leaned forward. “Eloise, you chose a guy who travels for business every weekend and at least once during the week. You chose a guy who’s around a few days a week.”

  “I chose?” I repeated again. “Like I knew he was Mr. Jet Plane when I met him?”

  “You yourself said you liked Noah so much immediately that you threw up during your first date,” Amanda put in.

  “And then the less he was around,” Jane said, “the more comfortable you were.”

  “That’s ridic—” True, I amended.

  During our first date, when I excused myself to the ladies’ room to refresh my lipstick and catch my breath and assure myself that you couldn’t possibly fall in love with a guy you’d known for an hour and a half, I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled like an idiot and threw up.

  When I returned to the table, Noah had ordered a surprise dessert and another round of margaritas, and he told me that I looked absolutely beautiful.

  But I just barfed my brains out in the bathroom, I thought. And now I’ll have to go back because you’re even more perfect than you were when I threw up the first time.

  Turned out I didn’t have to, because over fried ice cream and mango margaritas, Noah told me that he couldn’t wait to go out with me again but that he’d have to because he was going away for the next two weekends. “I travel a lot,” he’d told me. “Constantly, really.”

  My nausea disappeared.

  The less he was around, the more comfortable you got…