Or didn’t.
There was always an in-law who looked like they had a mouth full of mayonnaise and couldn’t possibly stop to listen to the photographer’s instructions. There was always one bridesmaid deeply committed to fluffing the train or holding the veil at the perfect angle to get that windswept look and there was always a groomsman playing catch with a pinecone.
I wished those moments made it into the photo album. I liked them so much more than the stiff lineup of family and friends.
Meri had a few gentlemen on her watch list tonight, as was her usual approach. I didn’t share her ability to eagle-eye and rank prospects. My preference was to withhold judgment until the dancing started. There was something about dance floors at weddings that revealed everything you’d ever need to know about physical chemistry. Plus everyone was properly liquor-lubricated at that point and I’d met my daily cake requirement, which made everything better.
We waited until the last minute to select seats. This made it easier to spot the tables with openings and reassess our plans if needed. Over the years, we’d determined that all weddings had between two and five percent absenteeism. We’d yet to drop in on a wedding with fewer than six empty seats.
Yes, we were also data wonks. Brains, beauty, the balls to crash weddings—we had it all.
This wedding, however, was enormous even byTitanicstandards and there were at least twenty-five place cards waiting to be collected when we finally entered the opulent tent.
We chose a table toward the back corner with a bunch of mismatched people who didn’t appear to know each other—the strays and leftovers. Every party had them. Usually good, fun people who were at least a little surprised that they were invited and never asked too many questions of their tablemates.
Best seat in the whole house.
“Not a penny spared,” Meri said, nudging my arm as she tipped her chin toward the stage. The entire ten-piece band was decked out in purple velvet suits to match the thousands of plum-throated calla lilies spilling from the centerpieces and hanging from floral chandeliers around the tent. “Not a single one.”
“What would it take for you to spend this kind of money on a party?”
“Let’s start with some student loan forgiveness,” she said. “Add in some parents with a couple hundred grand they want to blow on one day. Oh, and a man I tolerate and trust for more than a night. That might do it.”
The bandleader kicked off “About Damn Time” as the bridal party arrived, dancing into the tent in pairs. It was clear they’d choreographed and thoroughly rehearsed this though it was also clear that rhythm had not been equally distributed, which made this even more sensational. There was nothing better than a groomsman with the grace of a pickle jar while the bridesmaid with him had clearly dedicated a decade of her life to ballet.
My gaze immediately snagged on the best man, who—I had to bite my bottom lip to hold back a grin as I realized this—knewexactlyhow to move that tall, broad body. The most surprising part was that he was having fun doing it. He wasn’t rolling his eyes or going through the motions. He was into itandcompensating his ass off as the maid of honor was at least seven months pregnant and looked like she’d commit some light treason to get out of those heels and that mermaid-style dress.
I tapped my glass against Meri’s. “What are the odds you deliver that baby tonight? What would you say? Twenty-nine? Thirty weeks? You can eyeball these things better than I can. She’s carryinglow.”
“Bite your fucking tongue.” She gave a rueful shake of her head. “Sit down, sister,” she muttered toward the maid of honor. “Get those feet up. Drink some water. Hold that kid in until tomorrow. I beg of you.” She knocked back the rest of her lavender lemon drop. “I’m really hoping there’s another couple of docs in this house.”
I raised my glass. “Let us pray.”
The bride and groom entered from opposite ends of the tent as the band kicked off an extra-peppy rendition of “Marry You.”
“She changed,” Meri said, her gaze on Florrie. “I knew she would.”
The new dress was very fun and very sexy with a skirt made for twirling. I wanted one for myself. Just to wear around the house. I loved a good twirl. “Completely gorgeous.”
“This is adorable,” Meri said as the happy couple danced through the tables toward each other. “God. They are so damn cute. I hope these two make it.”
I nodded as Florrie and Mason launched into choreography that must’ve required months of prep. They really were cute. I could almost delude myself into believing they could be the real deal. The one in a million that didn’t end up broken and miserable and irrevocably damaged from letting themselves believe they could ever truly trust anyone.
They danced another two songs before ending in a dramatic dip that spoke volumes about Florrie’s flexibility. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause when Mason pulled her up into his arms and kissed her.
“Get it, girl,” Meri hollered. To me, she added, “I like these kids. I’m happy we’re here to celebrate with them.”
Meri would sooner fight me than admit it, but she was as hopeless as any romantic could ever be. She loved love in all its beastly and beautiful shapes, even if she’d long since amputated the part of her that could receive such things. The wound had never quite healed, but she wouldn’t admit to that either. It was like she preferred the scar tissue and phantom limb pain to the risk of losing herself again.
“Me too,” I said. “And I’m happy I’m here with you.”
As a fleet of servers fanned out with the first course, Florrie’s father crossed the dance floor to hug his daughter and shake his son-in-law’s hand. He was a cartoonishly big guy, his booming voice almost enough to reach every corner of this tent without a microphone.
In his toast, he spoke of his daughter’s vivacious spirit and her many achievements, and not a single word about Mason. “Please raise your glasses,” he said, “to my daughter’s happiness. May it fill all of her days.”
Meri and I exchanged a glance as we drank. “Fathers of the bride,” I said. “Surprisingly fluent in the language of passive-aggressiva.”
As we dug into the first dish, Meri bonded with the guy beside her over a shared distaste for pomegranate seeds. They’d picked a small mountain of them out of their salads and were now bemoaning apple cider vinegar, or something like that.
