“Well,” she says, her voice even but edged, “maybe that was because your conscience finally caught up with you.”
I pause. Her words land, but I’m not entirely sure what she means.
“I don’t understand,” I say, turning toward her.
But before she can respond, we’ve reached the front of the room.
The planner waves us toward opposite sides—bridesmaids on one, groomsmen on the other—and just like that, Rhea’s gone from my arm.
Serena is fussing with the flower arrangements up front.
“I specifically asked for white freesia,” she says to no one in particular. “This is clearly ivory.”
When we’ve all settled in our spots, Serena turns and examines us one by one, as if we’re champagne flutes lined up on a table—and she’s spotting fingerprints.
She lifts one hand delicately.
“Excuse me,” she says to the wedding coordinator, her voice smooth but firm. “The spacing between the bridesmaids and groomsmen feels… uneven.”
The planner glances up from her clipboard.
Serena gestures with a smile, as though offeringa helpful suggestion. “The men are spread much farther apart than the women. It throws off the symmetry of the photos, don’t you think?”
Before the coordinator can answer, Serena turns slightly. “Perhaps some floor markers? Just something subtle—tape, or a petal—so people know where to stand.”
The planner nods, scribbles something, and attempts to resume her instructions.
“So after the vows, the officiant will prompt the rings, and then Carter and Serena will turn to face the guests?—”
Serena lifts her hand again, not impatient, just… precise.
“I hate to interrupt,” she says, tilting her head. “But from here, it’s clear that the arch is still off-center.”
The planner blinks. “We did adjust it earlier, but?—”
“I understand,” Serena says. “But from this angle—” she takes a step, pointing“—it’s pulling left. Maybe two inches. It won’t read in person, but it will in photographs.”
A pause. I glance over at Rhea, trying not to stare, but damn, she is beautiful. Not in a glitzy, glamorous way, but just pure, simple beauty.
“Well, if we can’t adjust the arch properly, possibly, we could re-center the runner to compensate?”
And then Rhea looks right at me, a slight shake of the head and roll of the eyes, as if she knows we agree about the ridiculous antics of the bride.
The planner’s nod is tight and fast. “Of course. We’ll take care of it.”
She turns the page of her program binder with slightly more urgency than before.
“Let’s run the recessional,” she says. “Serena and Carter will lead the exit, followed by each couple, four-count spacing in between.”
Serena and Carter take their places at the head of the aisle. Serena smooths her dress, lifts her chin, and turns to go.
“Wait, I didn’t get to kiss the bride!” Carter jokes, but Serena does not smile.
“Come on,” she says to him, annoyed, and down the aisle they go.
The rest of us follow.
As Rhea and I join arms again, the wedding coordinator whispers, “One, two, three, four.”
