“I promise I’ll stop crying soon,” I tell her.
“Oh, I doubt that, but don’t worry,” she says. “It’s normal to be an emotional wreck on your wedding day. It’s why we use waterproof mascara.”
I love that she uses the word “normal.” I exhale a steady stream of breath to calm myself. I can do this. I can do this. I hug everyone goodbye. The photographer opens the door to the hotel’s hallway for me. Together, we make our way to the elevator. I savor the feeling of walking down the stretch of corridor. The next time I make a walk like this in my wedding dress, I’ll be heading down the aisle.
The photographer suggested we do our first look photos on the top floor of the hotel. We’ve booked the ceremony on the sprawling, wraparound patio with uninterrupted, panoramic views of Williamsburg, the East River, and the entire Manhattan skyline. Later, the reception will be held at The Ides, the Art-Deco-meets-industrial-chic hotel bar decked out in shimmering white tiles and geometric windows. When we get off at the top floor, the photographer keeps me cloistered in the narrow elevator bank to make sure that Raj doesn’t see me before it’s time. When I hear the two men greet each other, I’m relieved at the sound of Raj’s voice. He’s really here. This is really happening.
“Okay, Eliza? When you’re ready, you’re going to make your way around the corner to the left, through the door, and onto the patio, where Raj is waiting for you,” the photographer calls. “Pretend like I’m not even here. Just walk up and say hello to him.”
I feel tingly with anticipation, even though this isn’t technically a real first look. The day I picked out my wedding dress, I showed Raj photos of myself in it on my phone. In hindsight, it’s funny that I had no idea I’d be marrying him in it. I fluff out my hair along my shoulders, smooth down my skirt, and take a deep breath.
Slowly, I make my way around the corner. The door from the bar to the patio is held open, and I can see Raj standing outside with his back to me. He’s clad in a sharp black tux, and it occurs to me that I have no idea where it even came from—if it’s a rental or if it was already hanging in his closet. There’s still so much I have to learn about him.
From the way he straightens up, I can tell he senses I’m behind him. I reach out to tap his shoulder.
“Hi there, beautiful,” he says, not moving.
“You don’t know how I look,” I say. “For all you know, I could be in my frumpiest pajamas, desperately in need of a shower.”
“Hmmm, yeah, maybe,” he says. “But you’re always beautiful.”
God, I can’t believe this man is somehow real.
Raj reaches behind him to hold my hand. His thumb grazes my diamond ring.
“No Ring Pop today?” he jokes.
“I ate it!” I say.
He whips around, a playful look of surprise on his face. “You ate my engagement ring?”
Click, click, click.
I can’t help it, I burst out into laughter. “It’s candy! What was I supposed to do?!”
Click, click, click.
He softens and embraces me for a lingering kiss. I wouldn’t be opposed to a lifetime of kissing this man.
Click, click, click.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Raj says, stepping backward. “You’re unbelievably stunning. Like, wow.”
His jaw actually drops when he takes in the full sight of me as a bride. I’m impressed by how he looks, too. He has a fresh haircut and has tamed his usual week-old scruff into a five-o’clock shadow that makes the angles of his face look superhero sharp. He takes my hand and twirls me around to see my dress from the back. On any other occasion, I’d feel a little self-conscious and silly, letting myself be spun like a little girl. But today is a once (or twice, or three times, who knows)-in-a-lifetime kind of day. I’m surprised that I simply want to enjoy it, twirls and all.
Raj digs in his pocket and pulls out a thin cuff bracelet made of yellow gold. It’s carved with an undulating wave pattern.
“My mom gave this to me this morning because she wore this on her wedding day,” he says. “I know jewelry is a big deal to you, and I don’t want to mess up your whole look, but . . . would you consider wearing it today? It’d mean a lot to her.”
I hadn’t planned on wearing any bracelets, since the gown has long sleeves that graze my wrists. I’ve never been a fan of mixing metals, and the gold doesn’t work with the platinum-set pieces I chose to wear today (my real engagement ring, of course, plus a pair of round-cut diamond studs and an absurdly extravagant diamond pendant necklace to match, both on loan from Brooklyn Jewels). But none of that matters. A marriage is the combination of two lives, and that begins now. I’m touched by the gesture.
“Of course,” I say, sliding the bracelet onto my right wrist.
It hits me that I’ll be meeting his parents for the first time today, just as he’ll be meeting mine.
“Wait, you need to tell me everything about your parents,” I say, suddenly stressed. Meeting Michelle Barrett this summer was already trying enough.
“They’re cool. I mean, my mom’s a little overbearing, and my dad is kind of hard to get to know at first, but they’ll like you,” he says.
“Are they going to be upset that this isn’t a traditional Indian wedding?” I ask.
After Raj proposed, we had discussed what the wedding ceremony should look like. I asked him to teach me about Hindu wedding traditions, and I think he considered it for a minute, but he ultimately told me that the ceremony didn’t matter too much to him. “I mean, I know all weddings are about the bride,” he had said. “But this one especially is. I’m not religious. I don’t really care.” So I called the officiant to pivot the Judeo-Christian ceremony I had planned for me and Blake into just a low-key Jewish one.
Raj hesitates, then says, “Our next wedding—our real, legal wedding—will be a big, traditional Indian blowout. The celebrations go on for days. There’ll be a Sangeet; a Mehndi, where you’ll get decked out in henna; and we’ll get married under a mandap, which is kind of like a Jewish chuppah, actually. . . .”
“Oh, our next wedding!” I say, laughing. “We’ll see about that. Let’s get through one at a time.”
I told Sharon, the event manager, months ago that I would probably walk down the aisle to an appropriately sappy Adele song, but Raj’s proposal stirred up a new idea. When Sharon came to check on me before the ceremony, I gave her the new plan. And that’s why, an hour later, after my guests settled into their seats along the rooftop patio and Raj and the officiant are stationed under the chuppah canopy of twisted branches and crawling vines, the opening notes of “Marry You” by Bruno Mars ring out. The lyrics describe a Vegas chapel wedding on a whim, which fits this situation surprisingly well. I like that it’s a cheeky tribute to the whirlwind nature of our relationship.
I link my arms through my mom’s on my left and my dad’s on my right. Jewish tradition dictates that the bride is accompanied down the aisle by both parents; I like how egalitarian that feels. Together, we move as one unit. The guests rise and turn to face us. I spot Jess sitting with Helen, who looks regal in a purple jacket and too many necklaces spilling down her chest. Aunt Linda positively beams while her daughter Kate’s eyes roam (and probably judge) my dress. I even recognize Raj’s parents—they’re in the front row and his features are an exact blend of theirs. As often as I’ve thought about this moment, it didn’t occur to me until now how meaningful the walk down the aisle would feel. I’ve probably walked this exact same stretch of the patio a half dozen times before. But I’ve never done it surrounded by every important person in my life.
When I reach the chuppah, my parents each give me a kiss on the cheek.
“I love you, sweetie,” my dad whispers.
There’s real emotion in his eyes and it gives me goose bumps. My parents take their seats in the first row, and I join Raj in front of the officiant. His eyes sparkle when he gives me a smile.
The officiant kicks off the ceremony with a personal touch, telling
the story of how Raj and I met while leaving out about 90 percent of the actual details. “So Eliza here was a single girl selling engagement rings for a living when she spotted a cute bartender. . . .” he begins. The audience laughs. We’re off to a good start. The officiant segues into a speech about what it means to build a life together.
“No matter who you are, no matter how long you’ve been together, marriage is a tremendous leap of faith,” he says. “It’s a promise to do right by your partner when neither of you knows what the future may hold. There’s no guarantee that it will be easy—in fact, the only guarantee is that it will not. That’s not to say marriage isn’t worthwhile. It’s the most meaningful thing that many of us will ever do. And I don’t know about you, but I believe that knowing marriage is a leap of faith makes it all the more beautiful. Today, we’re witnessing two people making the leap together.”
Next, he leads us each through a short set of prayers in Hebrew; he recites a few words at a time, and we follow. I make it through all right; I won’t be moving to Tel Aviv anytime soon, but the guttural consonants and stretched-out vowels stir up old memories of studying for my bat mitzvah. Raj stumbles over a particularly hard-to-pronounce string of words, but keeps his eyes trained confidently on the officiant. We go through a similar process to exchange vows in English, and this time around, the words feel deeply meaningful.
After we each say “I do,” the officiant places a glass wrapped in a white cloth napkin on the floor between me and Raj. He stomps on it triumphantly. The loud snap makes my body buzz with adrenaline.
“You may now kiss the bride!” the officiant announces.
I feel like I’m in a movie as Raj pulls me close for a kiss. People clap and cheer for us, and even though I’m tempted to really go for a kiss, I pull away a split second before we look indecent. Getting married is fun. Who knew?
“Not such a bad second date, huh?” Raj says quietly enough so only I can hear.
I grin ear to ear as we make our way down the aisle together.
The next hour—the cocktail hour—is a flurry of air-kissing relatives, a photo shoot of Raj and me with our families and friends, and endless flutes of champagne. At one point, I find myself holding a jumbo shrimp. Raj introduces me to his parents, whom I hug instantly. If they’re taken aback by what must have been an incredibly bizarre phone call from their son last week—“Hi, I’m getting married next weekend, can you come?”—they don’t make it into a big deal.
“Welcome to the family,” his father says. “You’ll have to come by for dinner sometime.”
“Of course, I’d love that!” I say.
His mother touches the gold bracelet. “This is lovely on you. It should bring you luck; we’ve been married for thirty years now.”
Aunt Linda pulls me aside to share her detailed thoughts on the ceremony, the cocktail hour, the venue, and my dress. I listen for ten solid minutes until I can pawn her off on the first person in my line of sight, who happens to be Liv’s four-year-old niece.
That’s when I see Helen, watching the party from her perch by a cocktail table. I hitch up my skirt and make my way toward her. When she grasps both of my hands, I feel that hers have aged; she looks more like a grandmother than she ever has before.
“Who knew you’d ever wind up in a big white dress?” she says, shaking her head with a smile. “I could see you eloping or shacking up with someone sexy, maybe, but this? I’m surprised.”
“Helen!” I exclaim. “I’m happy. Raj is great.”
“I’m sure he is,” she says, nodding sagely. “I’ve heard from Jess that you two have had quite the whirlwind relationship.”
“You must have heard . . . more . . . from Jess, haven’t you?” I ask, wincing a little.
She raises an eyebrow. “A little something about not being able to pay the rent? I did,” she says.
I sigh. “Did you ever face that? Was there ever a time when you weren’t sure how to keep your store afloat?” I’m suddenly afraid that I could well up again; admitting potential defeat to Helen, the woman who single-handedly inspired my entire career, is more devastating than I realized it would be.
“Of course, honey,” she says, giving me a sympathetic look. “We all wind up in impossible situations. But today is your wedding day, and tomorrow, you can figure out what to do next. The right answer will come—it just takes time.”
“Time,” I repeat stiffly. I don’t have much time.
“And anyway, let me tell you, life after retirement? Not so bad!” she crows. “If Brooklyn Jewels goes under, you can join me on my next trip—I’m heading down to South America to see the Amazon.” She hugs me firmly and strokes my hair. “You’ll figure it out, hon. You always were so smart.”
“Thanks,” I mumble gratefully.
She swats at the rest of the room. “Now don’t let me keep you all to myself. I hear there’s a party going on!”
Before I know it, it’s time for the reception. If I were actually paying for this wedding, I’d be pissed. I can’t believe how quickly time flies—especially when weddings can cost one hundred dollars a minute or more. Raj and I make the rounds to each table of guests as they eat. (I don’t know about him, but I have too much energy to actually sit still and focus on food.) Over and over, people say, “I had no idea you were even dating anyone!” We fidget with our responses, testing out new ones every time.
“Really? Didn’t you see all those photos of us together on Facebook?” I fib to one cousin. (There are zero photos.)
“Huh, strange, I could’ve sworn I told you about Raj forever ago,” I say to another.
“Wow, it is just so great to see you!” I exclaim to a third person, steamrolling right over whatever plans they had for this conversation. “Tell me about your new job. And your hair looks amazing, by the way.”
The only real moment of peace that Raj and I get together is during our first dance. I realize just how appropriate the term is; we’ve literally never danced together before.
We’re rocking slowly side to side in the center of the dance floor. I can feel dozens of pairs of eyes trained on us, including the photographer’s.
“Thank you,” I tell Raj softly. “I mean it. Most people wouldn’t step up like this.”
“Trust me, I would not do this for most people,” he says.
I let my head rest on his shoulder as we sway to the music for a moment.
“Oh, by the way, I have a free honeymoon booked,” I blurt out, suddenly remembering. “We leave on Monday. I mean, if you want to come?”
His eyes go wide with shock. He laughs. “Um, I can try to arrange that.” he says. “Where are we going?”
“A few places around the Mediterranean Sea, starting off in Santorini?” I ask.
I shouldn’t have to ask my fake husband to confirm that he would like to attend our real honeymoon trip with less than forty-eight hours’ notice, but alas, here we are. I’ve heard people say the key to keeping a relationship fresh is the ability to continually surprise each other. If that’s true, I guess we’re starting things off on the right foot.
“That sounds amazing,” he says, kissing my forehead. “My manager is here. I’ll ask him tonight if I can take some time off.”
As the music transitions to a new song, more couples begin to fill the dance floor. Liv leads Sophie into a bobbing sort of waltz, and though their dance is off-kilter, their eyes are bright and glowing. I’m so happy for them. I see my mom pull my dad into the center of the crowd—he hates to dance—and I watch as Raj’s parents join, too. Carmen, never one to miss a good time, sweeps onto the dance floor in a ruffled cocktail dress the color of a good pinot noir. At first, I see her dancing with friends, but a few songs later, she taps me on the shoulder.
“Raj, may I cut in?” she asks.
He obliges. “Sure.”
I squeeze Carmen’s hands. “This is good, right? You’re having fun?”
“Of course! But listen . . . I debated showing you this, but I feel
like you might want to see it,” Carmen says, offering me my phone.
Blake texted me. It’s short. His name feels like a sucker punch to the gut—I just wasn’t expecting it.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you today. You’re a beautiful bride. I hope you’re happy.” That’s the entire message.
Carmen stares at me with her teeth sunk into her lip, like an anxious squirrel.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I furrow my brow at my phone screen and hand it back to her. “Yeah? Yeah. I mean, that’s bizarrely nice of him. He didn’t have to say anything. But it feels good to know that he doesn’t totally hate me, which he has full license to do.”
It feels odd to think about Blake in the midst of my wedding. At first, after our breakup, I couldn’t imagine going through with today without him by my side. But now, our entire relationship feels so hazy and far away. Today feels right, exactly as it is.
Sharon, the event manager, sidles up to us.
“Sorry, ladies, don’t mean to interrupt,” she says. “But, Eliza, are you free for an interview now? A reporter from The Knot is here.”
“Absolutely,” I tell Sharon.
What happens next will be just as important as the wedding ceremony, if not more: I offered an exclusive interview and social media promotion to The Knot in exchange for $5,000. Once their story publishes, I’m hoping it will be picked up by other wedding publications.
“Hi! I’m Jen from The Knot,” a woman squeals, enveloping me in a hug and performing an air kiss. “I don’t want to mess up your makeup,” she explains.
“Hi!” I say, ramping up my voice to match her sorority-girl enthusiasm.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time because it’s, like, your special day, obviously, but I’d love if you could record a quick fifteen-second video welcoming The Knot followers to your wedding that we can post on social,” she says, handing me her phone. It’s already unlocked and open to Instagram.
“Oh, amazing, let’s go find the best lighting and a quieter space,” I say, turning away from the dance floor.
Love at First Like Page 25
