1
Maggie
Three Years Ago
My best friend is about to get married.
And I’ve never even told a man I love him.
Despite that, as I sit at one of the bridesmaids’ vanities, a rare hum of potential buzzes over my skin. The wordmaybefloats to mind. Just maybe today is the day I’ll meet the right one. The people closest to me, my sister Kirsten and the bride-to-be, Viv,—say I quickly abandon hope by vacillating from one end of the spectrum to the next.
One day, I’m ready to fall in love and walk down the aisle. The next, I’m swearing men off and taking a well-earned vacay from all thingsmale.
The truth is, I spend far more time at the I’m-not-ready end. The I-doubt-anyone’s-out-there-for-me end. But here I am, on the opposite end, feeling hopeful yet again.
The dressing room is filled with other bridesmaids—all friends of mine and all married now, save the bride’s three younger cousins, who are out front taking selfies.
Shaylee’s seated at the vanity to my right. For her wedding, I was forced into a pastel green gown, which did horrific things to my complexion. I’m a redhead, and while green usually looks good on me, accenting my light skin while complementing my hazel eyes,pastelgreen gives my already pale complexion a cadaverous cast.
Maple, who’s seated on the other side of Shaylee, blinks her lashes through a wand of mascara, lips slightly parted as she applies it with care. Her bridesmaid gown is pastel, too, and peachat that. I tried getting a spray tan like the other bridesmaids, but sadly, I ended up matching the dreaded shade. Ever seen a walking Band-Aid in heels? It’s surprisingly not cute.
When I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Lindy Marshall—now Lindy Goodfellow—took the prize—most ill-fitting color by far—butter-yellow with urine-toned underlays for that added, pee-colored pop. Believe it or not, they looked fabulous on the other women; most have darker complexions, and those who don’t got another one of those trusty spray tans. Forget cadaver—I looked like I’d clawed my way out of a casket buried in a dog park.
But there was one who suffered alongside me, donning every unflattering gown along theway—Viv O’Leary—the bride of the day. We’ve grown closer over the years, bonded by the common woes of being a redhead.
Now it’s Viv’s turn to take her vows opposite a handsome, devoted groom. Her accent colors include, among shades of ivory and beige, a bold and beautiful emerald green. It’s the color of—not only my gown—but also of Viv’s silky sash, which looks incredible next to her glowing wedding dress.
My gown is tailored beautifully, and Chad, the groom, has enough single groomsmen to make me forget all about the dresses that did me dirty. At last night’s wedding rehearsal, I met a few of them. Sadly, the best man—the one who’s supposed to walk me down the aisle—hadn’t shown, but I was assured he’d be here today. He’s good-looking too, Viv insisted with wide and serious eyes—reallygood looking.
I can’t help but think that the stars are finally ready to align. The wordmaybefloats through my mind once more. I like it. It allows for possibilities. Perhaps Chad’s cousin will embolden me to get past my fear of relationship failure once and for all. Not every relationship fails, I tell myself. Sure, Mom and Dad had a rough go at it. That’s putting it lightly; their back-and-forth relationship was dumpster-fire-toxic, and I took the brunt of it.
But my sister Kirsten—who’s eleven years older than I am—is happily married and has the most wonderful son ever born save the Lord and Savior himself—Jack. When I focus on Kirsten and Greg’s relationship, it gives me just enough hope to lower my guard. In fact, it makes me excited that a handsome, single man will loop his muscular arm through mine, smellingall manly, of course. And I’ll finally look my best in—let’s face it—the gown of my dreams.
There’s just one little problem.
I got in an untimely fender-bender last night, and now I’m stuck wearing a neck brace, not the best-looking accessory. And it’s not just any neck brace either; this thing looks like a medieval contraption. Its white, plastic panels cradle my chest, ribs, and the entire backside of my head. And even in the gorgeous gown, I look like I just walked off the Star Wars movie set. There’s an adjustable halo strapped around my forehead in case I—heaven forbid—attempt to turn my head half a centimeter. And in case that’s not enough, the foam chin guard—which, I might add—is squeezing my cheeks the way old ladies squish babies’ faces—should do the trick.
I can’t even walk right, as hindering as the clunky thing is. Every step is a painstaking chore that makes me wonder why, in heaven's name, I came at all.
Still, I choose to remain cautiously optimistic. Maybe Chad’s cousin will take one look at me and think,“what an awesome friend. Look how devoted she is. She’d make a great wife one day.”In fact, I should consider this his first test. If Viv and Chad think the best man and I could make a good match, this is a great way to test the waters—see how shallow the guy really is.
If he’s Mr. Right, he’ll see past the neck brace and give me a chance.
A boost of confidence fills my chest because I can be very engaging. Two college professors have told me so, and I don’ttake that lightly. I’ll hold my head up, not that I could actually lower it if I wanted to, and resolve to make the most of this day.
“You know, Maggie,” Lindy Goodfellow says, “you really are lucky to be alive.” Lindy sits at my right, filing her pointed nails while smacking her gum.
I scowl at her reflexively, but it doesn’t translate with the whole squished, babyface thing.
“You’re right,” I finally say, resigned.
“I can’t believe youactuallycame,” says Maple with her maple-toned complexion that looks perfect in every color known to man. She moves the wand to her right eye and blinks some more. “That was really sweet of you.”
“You’re better than I am,” Shaylee inserts. “I’d probably hide out until I was able to take that thing off.”
“Same,” Lindy agrees with another smack of her gum.
“I’ll be in this thing for at least four weeks,” I say, my tone defensive. “I have to eat in it, sleep in it, and go to the bathroom in it… I can’t just hide out for four whole weeks. Plus, I didn’t want to let Viv down. She’s waited her whole life for this day.” Tears sting my eyes. Perhaps I should have stayed home. Who can focus on the wedding when the maid of honor comes out in more plastic than a Storm Trooper?
