one
Charlotte Bradbury
“Doyou,Clover,takeBeau to be your lawful husband, to have and to hold, until death do you part?” the preacher read from his prayer book.
I do!I desperately tried not to mouth the words. I didn’t want anybody to think I was mocking this, because well, it wasn’t my wedding. I’m not Clover. I’m Charlotte, the bridesmaid. Again.
And not just a little again.
Again. Again and again.
I was stuck standing up here in front of all these so-happy-for-you people, wearing a brighten-your-day-yellow dress that I’m pretty sure would look better as a bakery tablecloth. I was careful not to squirm. This was Clover’s moment, and I didn’t want to take any of the attention from her, but boy, budget-heels were a much better idea in theory.
Also, Clover never discussed the flowers with me—not that she had to, as it was clearly her wedding—but the part where I, the bridesmaid, had to hold her bouquet of matching brighten-your-day yellow daisies, was getting a little dicey. She glossed over the detail that I was highly allergic to pollen, and these smellier-than-average daisies were quickly becoming flex-your-face-off-to-avoid-sneezing-during-the-vows daisies.
It started with a light tickle on the tip of my nose. Luckily, I tamed that twitch by pulling the bouquet down further. Good thing I had long arms. Not like spider monkey arms. Let’s not get carried away with comparison, but I knew my way around a basketball court.
The tickle subsided for a mere moment, and then it returned. This time with vengeance, sprouting deep roots in the walls of my nose. My gaze skirted to the side where the videographer was zoomed in on us.
If I can hold it for another minute.
This was Clover’s moment.They were about to kiss.
A spiral inside my nose erupted like a tornado tasked with the job of evacuating all the scent from my nose. Holding my breath was no longer an option and I was about to blow some serious snot.
That couldn’t happen!
Out of panic reflex, I chucked the bouquet forward, gritting my teeth when it sailed across the church, only to land in a lady’s lap. The crowd started cheering—they obviously thought it was on purpose. Tossing a heel up, I did some weird curtsy thing, trying to act like ithadbeen on purpose. I lucked out on that deal, but inside I was still dying.
The tickle receded, but my eyes locked on the happy couple just as their lips met. I clamped my jaw hard with everything I had to avoid ruining their perfect moment. I was happy for her, my boss. My friend who I got to watch fall in love with her client, Beau Tucker. I was truly happy for her. So happy. I felt happy. Okay, maybe I was a little jealous. But mostly I was, er, happy.
Good thing tears were common at weddings.
“So, do I want to be in a serious relationship?” I nodded in answer to Nick' question, setting my seconds-after-another-friend’s-perfect-wedding-mocktail glass down to clear my hands so I could better defend myself to my best friend, Nick. We were sitting near a window at the bar in Harbor Inn and lodge, thesamelodge where my three best friends held their destination weddings.
They all chose the town of Mapleton because, “it held the perfect winter wonderland background for a beautiful Christmas wedding.” Mapleton was so charming it was named the number-one spot to have a Christmas wedding. I’d bought so many weekend packages to stay here as a bridesmaid, I was pretty sure I deserved a free upgraded bride package any day now—I just needed to find a groom.
“I do.” My adrenaline ticked up—like way up—all the way up to my neck. I continued to use my hands to illustrate my point, something I always did when I got emotional. Placing my flattened palm on my chest to stifle the rush, I continued, “Do I want to go to vineyards and apple orchards?”
“—I love apple orchards,” Nick cut in. “They have the best hard cider.”
“Cheers to apple orchards!” I pinched the stem of my glass between my fingers, and tapped it with his, then lowered it to my lips so I could take another generous sip of my mocktail, made with their famous poinsettia garnish. As I came up for air, I finished my sentence right where I had left off. “And hayrides with pumpkin spice lattes, sharing fluffy blankets that are perfectly coordinated to match our turtleneck sweaters, and do all the other insanely cute stuff?” I paused, but did not let him answer. He didn’t need to tell me how he was feeling because I already knew. We were both tired of people acting as if I didn’t knowallour friends were marrying off at increasing speeds. That didn’t sound like something I should be upset about, but no matter how much they insisted they would still make time for a night out, one-by-one they disappeared into the baby-raising abyss.
I shifted in my seat, scooting closer to the edge. Sure, I’d get an invite to birthday parties, or a family picnic—and I enjoy supporting my friends in that way—but it waspainfulto always show up alone, when all I wanted was to be able to do what they were doing.
I saw all my friends getting married.
Of course, I saw them!
“I do,” I rambled out. “I want all of that. I want to get married in a country church to my best friend. We'll start a business together, a flower store, or Bed and Breakfast, and do all the things together while popping out another baby every other year. It's what I wantmostin life. But do I want to go on dates with every loser I barely know, just to suffer through hours of awkward conversations, only to find out he is a player like the rest of them?” I sealed my lips tightly and wagged my head back and forth.
No words are needed.
“I know what you mean.” Nick leaned forward as he picked up my comment perfectly, like I knew he would. He always understood what I was going through. “I’m no Michelangelo’s David but I want to findonewoman who likes to cuddle on the couch, without having to twist her face into fourteen versions of duck lips so she can take the perfect ego-feeding selfie.” He gestured toward me. “Is that too much to ask?”
“Oh, I hate selfies.” I seethed, remembering his recollection of his last date. “When I’m on a date, I want to look at the other person, not stare at an isolated reflection of myself. I mean, I’ve been doing that long enough.”
“Agreed!”
