My mom gave Braden and me a couple of days to relax and then last-minute wedding preparations began. We had to do things like choose a menu for both the rehearsal dinner and wedding reception; pick a photographer (my mother had narrowed it down to two); and decide on décor. While we were having this discussion, Braden asked, “Why didn’t we just hire a wedding planner?”
My dear mother looked hurt and started to say something.
Braden immediately realized his misstep. “Christine, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. I just see how much work you’re having to put in…and I feel guilty.”
“Iwantto do it—I just need you both to weigh in on things.”
I knew from pictures that my mother’s wedding hadn’t been an elopement, but it had been a last-minute type of ceremony, close friends and family only.
So we forged ahead.
But then Braden wanted to look at houses. More than anything else, that brought it home…and a little voice inside asked me if I was truly ready. For the first time ever, it wasn’t asking because of my hangups with Zack. Did I truly love Braden…or was I in love with theideaof Braden? And did some deep-seated fear of dying alone or never finding what I thought I needed make me cling to him?
I knew it wasn’t fair to Braden or to me…but I was too afraid to explore the notion.
So I kept moving forward, making plans—and writing songs for the first time ever. Just snippets of poetry and drum solos, but I even imagined the sounds of guitar and bass accompanying the rhythms I created and it was in those moments that I found some semblance of peace.
As for finding a house, I finally told him, “I have no idea what I want. I just need to get through the wedding before I can focus on that.”
He didn’t understand my way of thinking—and neither did I. “Well…do you want me to pick something? Or would you rather rent for the first few months and we take our time?”
“Why couldn’t we just live with my mom for a while?”
At that, Braden furrowed his brown eyebrows. “You don’t want to get our own place?” God, I sounded like a real asshole. He said, “Would you rather find a place in Nopal? Or is there somewhere else you’d rather live? Is that the problem?”
“No,” I lied. “It’s because I’m stressed about the wedding. I feel like I can’t concentrate on anything else.”
His expression immediately softened. “Oh. That makes sense. Would you be okay if I picked out an apartment for a month or two and once we’re back from our honeymoon, we can start looking?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you worried about money?”
“A little,” I said. Although that wasn’t the main reason why I was hesitating, I wasn’t going to tell him that.
“The album’s still doing well, baby—and we’ll be recording another one this fall. We’ll be fine.”
Knowing I was being an ass, I said, “Thanks for putting up with me. Go ahead and rent something. I don’t care where or what it looks like. It’ll be temporary.”
“Sounds like a plan. Now we need to figure out what we’ll be doing on our honeymoon.” We’d already chosen to spend a week in Puerto Vallarta. The plane tickets were already purchased and the beachside hotel had been booked—but Braden didn’t just want to sunbathe the entire time. He wanted to explore a city we’d never seen before.
So we were immersed in planning along with my mother—and I didn’t even think about the bridal shower until the day of. Again, my mother had outdone herself. She’d reserved the community room at the one bank in Nopal and it didn’t cost much. I got up early that Saturday and helped her decorate—streamers, balloons, paper tablecloths—and I helped lay out all the food that I’d helped her prepare the night before: cookies, chips and dip, finger sandwiches, a veggie tray—and a sheet cake from the bakery in Dalton. I’d also picked it up on Friday to save my mother the hassle. Last but not least, we put together a punch with Sprite, Hawaiian Punch, and orange sherbet—strangely delicious.
It was a nice little room and I imagined it would have been nicer had the sun been out. Instead, heavy gray clouds covered the town, promising either rain or snow—or rain that would turn into snow if it got cold enough. I hadn’t seen the guest list but knew that it would be mostly relatives and some of my mom’s friends. My grandparents were driving down and spending the night and, when they arrived, my grandma pitched in while grandpa went to the house to watch March Madness games.
Grandma gave me a huge hug. “I can’t believe this girl is getting married.”
As she kissed me on the cheek, I said, “I can’t either.”
“What games will we be playing, Christine?” she asked.
While my mother showed her the various activities planned, I nibbled on a carrot and looked out the window atthe clouds. I tried not to think of it as an omen, but something was gnawing at me, something I’d been afraid to look at for a long time.
And I was still afraid to peek at it.
People started arriving—aunts and cousins, some of my mom’s friends, many of whom I knew from my days attending the school in Nopal, where I’d gone through both elementary and middle school. A couple were past teachers and aides. The librarian for our tiny library also came, as did the wife of Nopal’s grocery store owner.
I was immersed in conversation with two cousins I hadn’t seen since Christmas two years earlier—and they were pummeling me with questions about the band. I too had questions. One was pregnant with no intention to marry and the other was establishing herself as an Instagram influencer.
