“I’m having major déjà vu,” she said as she sprayed my thin hair, escaping the bun and trailing around my face.
“We wore our hair up for number one,” I reminded her.
“Hush. That was ten years ago.”
This would be the third time I was Margo’s maid of honor and never a bride. A couple of marriages under my friend’s belt wouldn’t stop her from wearing white.
“This is why my mother isn’t invited,” she joked as our dresses arrived.
Having wrinkled on the flight, the staff had freshly steamed them.
“Can you believe she suggested I go to the courthouse this time?”
I nodded.
“Jayne, nothing’s worth doing unless you go all out. Why should the fact that I’ve been married before keep me from finding happiness now? Or celebrating as if it was the first time?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I love that you follow your heart.”
Margo’s fire engine red hair appeared beside me in the floor-length mirror. She winced. “I hope you still feel that way when you see your dress.”
Pressing her gown against my torso, she leered.
It wasn’t her dress.
Apparently, I’d be wearing white too. Our dresses were identical. Thin, white, and simply elegant but also like I’dimagine for Africa like we wereRomancing the Stoneor something.
“What the hell, Margo?”
“I figured it might be the only time you get to wear one.” She laughed heartily at my situation, throwing her head back and everything.
“Well, since you have a collection now….” I slammed with a smile.
The other bridesmaids came into her suite before she could react. They were all wearing the same white dress. Margo informed me that the men would be wearing white as well. My alone time with her over, I backed off to let her newer friends fawn over her and tell her how they absolutely loved their lodgings and planned to shoot a million pictures tomorrow on safari. Feeling relieved no one mentioned their dates or husbands shooting, killing anything, I thought I might stay, after all, to get more time with my old friend.
It wasn’t hard to back away and finish dressing on my own. With a laugh that could travel a mile, Margo had always been the center of attention. I, on the other hand, was plain. A plain Jayne like my name suggested. I’d even changed how I spelled my name, J.a.y.n.e., instead of the J.a.n.e. on my birth certificate.
It hadn’t helped.
I was still the little girl who didn’t stand out in the crowd. A woman who could disappear in a group of four. Dishwater blonde with average brown eyes, an ordinary nose, skin, teeth, and body. I was just plain unremarkable. My new bangs hadn’thelped, either. While the other women made their identical white dresses look distinct, I made mine plain.
Margo twirled, the fabric flowing around her as her laughter filled the room. “How do I look?”
“You look remarkable, sweetie.” I hugged her before we all squeezed into our hooker heels. “But why these shoes?”
“My fiancé has a fetish,” she declared as we headed out the door.
I instantly regretted asking.
The whole party, minus the groom, gathered in front of the bridal hut. There were six couples, counting Chris and me. The only singles were George’s best man, a recent divorcee, Rob Dashell, and the groom’s single cousin, Tara Lipman. None of Margo’s family attended.
At Rob’s direction, we all took a caravan of Jeeps across the plains to one of those African trees. The ones that looked like they started all life. With some help from Chris, I made it out of the Jeep. Agreeing to wear the stilettos had been a mistake. Dodging rocks and clumps of grass, we bridesmaids seemed quite drunk as we wobbled our way to a simple arch of flowers.
I swear one of my heels was already coming loose. Wobbling like a newborn deer, I glanced down and noticed a slight tear in the strap. New shoes, my ass. Something about it bothered me. Had it been like that earlier? I couldn’t remember. Chris had been the one to put them out for me this morning.
There waited the groom, George Peterson, a heavy-set, middle-aged man who’d made his quick fortune developing a social media platform. Beside him, the priest and five Africanwomen dressed in traditional red gowns received us with easy smiles as if it weren’t a million degrees outside. Unlike every other wedding I’d attended, there were no seats. The guests stood. Naturally, I stood beside Margo, holding her bouquet of hand-tied wildflowers, my absolute favorite. Though these were no wildflowers, I’d ever seen before.
A serenade from the African choir started the ceremony. The women draped in red gave me tingles. The bride and groom read their own vows, making my stomach twist with nerves for them both. I watched their faces light up for one another as they recited heartfelt words of undying devotion and knew my friend was in love yet again. That was a comforting thought as sweat ran down my back. With the beautiful backdrop of the bush and giraffes walking in the distance, the heat didn’t matter. I was in love with the moment. The couple kissed, sealing their marriage.
