by Owens, Wendy
“Are you fucking kidding me? I party too hard with the boys, I don’t check in, and you’re done.”
“I—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Paige. I’m sick of the drama. Get out then, if you’re leaving, just leave,” Christian snaps before turning his back to me.
I’ve never felt two such conflicting emotions at the same time. Part of me can see he is hurting. I want to scoop him up into my arms, pull him in close, and make it better. But then there is another part of me that loud and clear is telling myself, you deserve more than your mom and dad, you deserve more than him.
And then it happens, I says the words, “Goodbye, Christian.” The door closes behind me, my first love on one side, the rest of my life on the other.
Four Years Later ...
I SIT IN the limo for a moment longer. The quietness consumes me. There is peace in the moment I have not experienced in days. With all of the hustle and bustle of getting ready for the wedding, the last week has been a haze of meetings with the planner, caterer, DJ, along with countless others. I really can’t understand why little girls dream of this day their entire lives. It seems like a terrible amount of work to simply declare to the public your plan to commit to one person for the rest of your life.
And then there is that thought. Committing to one person for the rest of your life. It never has seemed natural to me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m promiscuous or anything. I can count the number of serious relationships I’ve had on one hand. When I find a guy, I don’t mind committing, but for life?
“Miss, would you like me to get the door for you?” the handsome, young, and slightly rounded driver asks me.
I shake my head and quickly respond, “Oh, no, I’m fine.” Pushing all the air from my lungs, I pull the lever and push open the heavy door, stepping out of my sanctuary.
Clementine spots me in what must be record time; I can only assume she was waiting for me. She waves her hands wildly, beckoning me. I’m not sure what I would do without her. When Emmie came to New York all those years ago, I never would have imagined that stranger I shared a taxi cab with would later become my best, and as it would seem, sometimes only, friend.
Walking in her direction, toward the front doors of the chapel, I glance over my shoulder. Traffic is whizzing by, people are living their lives, with no clue what is happening to me on this day.
“Will you hurry up?” Emmie yells, holding the large wooden door open. “Guests will be arriving soon, and we can’t let them see you.”
I wonder why that is. I mean, really, if my guests see me before I walk down the isle, will it rip a hole in the space-time continuum? Why does is matter? I lower my head, staring at my sandal-clad feet as I approach.
“Are you all right?” Emmie asks. Leave it to her to always recognize when something is bothering me.
“Yeah, I’m fine, the hair dresser just took way longer than expected. I guess I’m just tired,” I lie. Or maybe I’m not lying. I don’t really know what’s wrong with me. I simply feel sad. Do all brides feel this way on their wedding day? Maybe it’s something that fades as soon as you see your groom waiting for you. I’m sure that’s it. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“She did take forever; you’re so late. What was her deal?” Emmie begins, but she doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Your dress is already in the changing room. I told your family I could help you get in it alone. I figured you preferred that.”
There it is again, the reason I love her. You can’t actually say the words, ‘I can’t stand my family. Can you please keep that group of toxic crazies away from me?’ Emmie just knows.
I follow Emmie quietly into the old building, marveling at the marble floors as we enter. The detailing is one of the reasons I fell in love with the chapel in the first place. Staring at the back of Emmie’s head, I notice how elegant her updo is. Her often frizzy and somewhat out of control, dingy blonde hair has somehow been tamed into a crisp and clean sweep of petite curls. I smile, thinking of Em and Colin’s wedding.
It was the perfect affair for the two of them. A country wedding at the hippie commune where Em’s mom lives suited them. Well, I’m not sure if it is officially a commune, but that’s what Em calls it. Emmie and Colin had the aisle for the wedding on one of the paths in the orchard, the number of guests very small, an intimate and perfect affair. Seemed like perfection to me. I wanted something just like it. I suppose I would have if my groom’s family hadn’t stepped in.
The Grove grew on me though, as did Em’s mom. I often find myself wishing she were my own mother. My mother is the last thing I want to be thinking about right now. It took six months to even convince myself to invite her to my wedding.
Honestly though, all I care about is the dress. When it comes down to it, they can have the rest. My life revolves around fashion these days, and it simply doesn’t seem right I release my own line and not design my wedding dress. It was a labor of love really—the massive amounts of hand-applied sheer fabrics in various shades of creams, ivories, and any other antique variation of white.
Stepping into the small room, the first thing my eyes move to is my dress. There it is, in all its glory. The grandmother of the groom tried pressuring me to wear a long train and gaudy veil. Clearly, she did not know with whom she was up against. I was in charge of what I would be wearing down the aisle.
Emmie is talking, but her words seem to fade into the background. I watch as my dear friend reaches up and pulls the garment I sank so many hours into preparing from the hanger with great care. She unfastens the hidden clasp on the side, just as I remove the last piece of clothing from my petite frame. I lift my arms over my head, closing my eyes. I don’t want to see the dress until it’s completely in place and revealed to me.
“Oh Paige—” Emmie gasps.
“What is it?” I inquire, now alarmed, spinning around to face the full-length mirror.
“You’re stunning,” Emmie replies, staring over my shoulder at the reflection. My heart sinks—I do feel beautiful—and my hands begin to sweat.
“Stay here, I’m going to see if they’ve begun seating,” Emmie instructs.
“Where am I going to go?” I joke, truly reminding myself there is nowhere to go. I am here, committed to this. And damn it, I am getting married today.
As I stare at my reflection, my mind is flooded with memories. I think of Emmie again, her happily ever after I had so envied. Unfortunately, my thoughts shift to my mother again. I lost count of her husbands and fiancés years ago. She always told me she just wasn’t lucky at love. I worry again that I am a product of her and will follow the same path of heartbreak and ruin that she did.
I’m not sure how long I stand in that small room, looking at a woman in the mirror I barely recognize. My hair, after hours in a styling chair being straightened with a flat iron, is twisted up into a very elegant hair knot. I wanted a much more natural look, but this is nice, too, and I have far too many other things on my mind to complain.
I pick at my fingernails, the thick coat of shellac something I’m not used to, but it doesn’t chip, so I simply rub the foreign layer on my usually unpolished nails, and accept it as a necessary inconvenience. I turn and look at the box on the floor, next to the chair, opening it carefully.
I wanted a handmade and vintage feel throughout the entire event, and my bouquet was no exception. I peer into the white box and marvel at the beauty of the paper flowers. A fashion designer I studied under for a few months is known for creating garments from hand-stained layers of paper. Using various colors, she rolled hundreds of small squares of paper together, sculpting a bouquet that can only be described as a piece of art.
“Hey beautiful, you ready?” I hear Colin’s voice from the doorway. Considering I haven’t seen my father since I was a little girl and none of the men my mother ever hooked up with can be considered father figures, I chose Colin to walk me down the aisle.
“As I’ll ever be,” I reply with a smile, s
cooping up the paper bouquet in my hand and stepping forward to take a hold of his arm.
The door swings open the rest of the way, and I emerge from the closet-sized room. Emmie is waiting for us at the huge entry into the sanctuary, a smile on her face stretching from ear to ear. She rushes over to me, kisses my cheek, and offers words of encouragement in an attempt to soothe my nerves. I know it is in vain—my nerves will not be tamed—it’s simply who I am.
“I love you,” I say finally. A true and honest statement, the purest thing I can muster in that moment. We walk together, stopping just before the double doors, the light from the stained glass windows dancing across our skin. My eyes shift, and I watch a purple glimmer on my elbow. I stare as it slowly shifts down my arm, settling on my wrist.
There on my wrist I stare at the tattoo, which reads, ‘I just might take the chance.’ Quickly, I drop my arm, not wanting the words to haunt me on this day. I glance over at Colin, hoping he didn’t catch me looking at the physical reminder of his brother. He doesn’t seem to notice.
The music begins, my heart beating harder. I feel my eyes go wet, and I swallow deeply. Emmie squeezes my arm before saying, “See you at the other end.”
I smile again; my face is starting to hurt. Faceless ushers close the doors, and Colin and I take our place for the big reveal. “It’s almost time,” he comments, looking down at me. I wonder if he can see how scared I am. “I promise, once you get down there, it’s a piece of cake. It’ll be gone before you know it, so savor every second.”
I’m not sure how I feel about what he just said. I keep questioning myself, unsure if the way I’m feeling is normal. Does anyone really deserve to be with someone as messed up as me until death? I mean, wow, death. Doesn’t anyone else think that is a terribly long time?
The doors open, and the noise in the sanctuary shifts as everyone stands and turns to look at me. I don’t look at any of their faces. In my head, I keep telling myself over and over again, ‘You can do this. Just keep smiling, keep smiling, keep smiling.’
Colin takes a step forward, pulling me along. The march feels like it takes forever. I wonder how long the aisle is and come to the conclusion it must be some sort of Guinness World Record for aisle lengths. I manage to make it the entire way without making eye contact with a single guest.
Instead, I focus my gaze at the end of the aisle. Emmie’s smile is beaming back at me, and my heart grows warm. My eyes shift to the minister. His hair is black, the black that looks fake and shiny, so you know he must have a full head of gray he’s covering up.
At last, I allow myself to look at him, there, waiting for me. I feel my heart begin to ache when our eyes meet, a tear rolling down his cheek. His eyes glisten with an expression of pure joy. I can’t help but smile a huge, toothy grin as I take in his mess of sandy, untamed curls on top of his head. My Henry, the last thing he ever thinks about is fashion or grooming. It is always clear, though, that I am the first thing he thinks about.
Before I know it, Colin has handed me off to my soon-to-be husband, and the minister is speaking the words that will unite us forever as husband and wife. I am reassured in those passing moments that I am, in fact, doing the right thing. This man is a creature unlike any I’ve ever known. He is wiser and kinder than I could ever hope to be, and I’m better for being with him.
The pastor calls out to the crowd, as a formality, “If anyone has any reason why this couple should not be joined in matrimony, let them speak now.” Soon, Henry will kiss me, and I will be his bride.
“I do,” a voice calls out powerfully from the audience. My breath catches in my throat as I spin wildly to find Christian peering back at us. The crowd erupts into whispering assumptions. “She can’t marry him because she still loves me!” he shouts.
My head is swimming, and I think I might vomit. I look back at Henry whose eyes are no longer filled with joy. Now I see pain staring back at me. My heart aches—this can’t be happening. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The organ begins playing an ominous pitch, and I gasp as I wake up.
I am drenched in sweat. My heart is racing. I look next to me. Henry sleeps soundly. “It was a dream, just a dream,” I tell myself.
I WAKE UP, reach out, and run my hand across the sheets next to me to find they’re cool to the touch. Like usual, Henry has gotten up long before me. During the early dating phase of our relationship, I never realized this about him. Usually when I would wake up, I’d find his eyes peering down at me. This made me uncomfortable the first few times I caught him doing it, but by the third or fourth time, something about it became almost comforting.
Once we moved in together, this habit slowly changed, and I began to see the Henry that is restless. Where I will, without much thought, sleep ‘til noon on a Saturday morning, Henry can’t sleep in, no matter how late he is up the night before. While I miss his warm body next to me in the morning, I can’t complain, because he is always ninja-like in his exiting skills, allowing me to rest as long as my heart desires.
I sit up and reach for my robe, smiling as I think about Henry. When I first moved in, he never realized why I always wore his t-shirts to bed. I’ve always lived like a college student. I don’t waste money on sexy pajamas, oh no, my funds are reserved for real clothes or going out. Once I moved in, my nighttime wardrobe became evident to him. He could see I was embarrassed by the revelation, so we spent the entire day shopping together. I now have more gowns and robes than I can ever possibly wear.
It’s odd that something so simple can make me feel so sophisticated. I don’t come from money like Henry. Everything I have in life I clawed out and grabbed onto for myself. To spend money on such luxurious, and in my mind, frivolous things, is hard to accept in some ways, but empowering in others. Henry is always good about sharing his wealth without flaunting it, a rare quality I’ve discovered over my lifetime. I can’t say the same for his grandmother—ugh—it is far too early in the morning to think about that woman.
Speaking of too early, what time is it? I glance at the clock on Henry’s side table. 9:38. I raise my eyebrows, impressed I haven’t slept the Saturday away.
I slip my feet into the cozy shoes next to my bed and make my way into the kitchen. Being back in New York, after spending the last six months in Paris was unsettling at first, but it hasn’t taken Henry and I long to fall back into a comfortable routine. When I first left for Paris, he sent me images of all the possible condo choices in Manhattan. Part of me wishes I could have been here for the process, but thanks to Henry, I got to feel like I was a part of it all from afar.
I have Henry to thank for most things in my life right now. He got me the apprenticeship under one of my favorite designers, and now I’m about to have my very own runway show. It’s still hard to believe my own designs will be out in the world.
When I walk into the kitchen, I catch sight of Henry sitting at the breakfast table near the window, thumbing through the pages of his paper, sipping a cup of coffee. I stop dead in my tracks, drinking in the picture of him. His sandy hair is tousled; I smile as I see him clench his jaw. This is something he does as he reads the financial section. Just the hint of some facial hair casts a shadow on his jaw line—a rare sight as Henry is always clean-shaven.
My breath catches in my throat as he looks over at me, a smile spreading across his handsome face and a slight twinkle in his blue eyes. Oh, those blue eyes. I still remember the first time I saw them. It was like getting lost in a vast ocean. They swallowed me up, and their power has never released me.
“Good morning beautiful,” Henry says. That has become his new normal. Every morning when I walk out for breakfast, he greets me with those words. My heart still floods with warmth when I hear it.
“Morning,” I reply, walking over to him and pressing my lips against his forehead. When I pull away I see him wince slightly. “Are you all right?”
He nods. “Yeah, it’s this headache. I just can’t seem to shake it.”
“Have you taken
anything for it?” I ask, walking over to pour myself a cup of coffee.
“Yeah, but none of it seems to work,” he replies, glancing back at the pages of his paper.
I grab one of the croissants from the plate on the counter and shove it in my mouth, using my free hands to add cream and sugar, before making my way over to Henry, taking a seat across from him. I pull off a piece of the delicate pastry and set the remaining piece on the table.
I see Henry eye the plate-less food. Though I know things like this annoy him, I also know he will never say it to me. I grab a napkin from the wire holder in the center of the table and place it as a barrier between the table and my food. This seems to please him as a smile tickles the corners of his mouth. I find his various quirks endearing.
“You don’t take care of yourself,” I insist, a fact I have argued since early in our relationship. “You never shut off.”
“Sure I do,” Henry dismisses my statement.
“Oh yeah? It’s a Saturday, and what are you doing right now?”
“Sitting across from the most beautiful fiancée a man could ever hope for.”
“Boy, you’re laying it on thick this morning.”
Henry laughs, setting the paper to the side. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m off work. The last thing I should be doing is reading the financials.”
“Oh yeah?” I taunt. “Then what exactly should you be doing?’
“How about we spend the entire day together?” Henry suggests.
“That sounds perfect,“ I reply “But … I have crazy amounts of work to do for the show. It’s ten weeks away, and I haven’t even sketched all of the designs.”
Henry leans forward and grabs me with his strong and powerful grasp, pulling me into his body and wrapping his arms around me. “I see how it is,” he teases. “You tell me I work too hard, but who can’t take a day off now?”
“Hey wait,” I laugh, then chime defensively. “The only reason I have to work so hard is because somebody, whose name I shall not mention, committed me to a show with a four-month deadline.”
