I’d wanted a whimsical bouquet of sunflowers and daisies and draping greenery, but my mother had declared my choice “too messy” and decided to go a different route with the wedding planner. She didn’t bother consulting me. From that day forward, I’d kept all my opinions about my wedding to myself. It was clear that today wasnotabout me.
I shuffled in heels too high, and a dress too puffy, and jewels too expensive, to the back of the church. I was to marry my fiancé in one of the oldest churches in New York. I hadn’t had any say in the stuffy location, or the guest list either.
The only thing my mother had allowed me to choose—willingly, unlike my ring—was the elegant tiarasituated on top of my cascade of curls. The smallest of crowns, a nod to the ring I loved so dearly, nestled into my whiskey-brown locks. Curls my mother had requested I get highlighted for the ceremony to better match her blonde head. That way, the photographs would look more uniform when we stood next to each other.
As I took my place behind the closed doors at the rear of the church, my mother studied me, her lips pursed as she looked me up and down.
“That will do,” she said finally. “Though I really wish you’d take off that stupid ring.”
My eyes watered. Tears smarted, fighting to break loose, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I’d thought for a moment that my mother’s pursed lips might turn into a small, grudging smile, and she’d break down and tell me I looked beautiful. Or maybe, she’d ask me if I was happy. Or better yet, she’d tell me to run far, far away.
But she simply gave a succinct nod and strode on click-clacking heels down to her seat at the front of the church. I turned to my father, but he was too busy peeking through the crack in the door to see which of his friends were in attendance.
“Can you believe the Lamberts are missing this?” My father turned to me and shook his head like I should be well and truly miffed about an old buddy from his fraternity missing my wedding. “Vacationing in Mallorca.Like that’s an excuse. We’ve had this on the calendar for nearly two years.”
Two achingly long years. Two years I’d debated running but had never mustered the confidence. Two years I’d suffered at the hands of stylists and dieticians and party planners.
I could only nod and wish.Wish, wish, wishthings were different.
But they wouldn’t be, and things would never change. At least marrying Simon would put me in good social standing and let me pursue my passion, which was helping people. Maybe someday I’d find joy in our future children; I did love children, and maybe that would be enough to sustain our marriage.
I was pretty sure my own parents didn’t love one another, and they made things work well enough. They tolerated each other, living totally separate lives under one roof. My father made money, and my mother spent it. I was starting to wonder if it made me greedy to yearn for more. I’d lived a privileged life to be sure. Could I really ask to find true love too? Wishing for more felt like I was pushing my luck.
I looked into my father’s eyes, hoping he’d see the helplessness in my own. I wished on every star, a real Hail Mary of a wish, hoping he’d recognize my reluctance to go through with this wedding. That maybe, somewheredeep within his heart, he’d recognize his only daughter’s needs for once.
Maybe Dr. Wells would offer to whisk me away to somewhere safe, somewhere I could cry and be alone and figure out what I wanted—what Ineeded—because somehow, this didn’t feel like it.
Or maybe that was the job of the best friend I didn’t have. Of course I didn’t have a best friend because I’d spent my whole life under my parents’ thumb, every move scrutinized, every acquaintance evaluated the second they walked through the door.
Then Simon had taken over control of my life, micromanaging my relationships so closely that even the few, flimsy friendships I had managed to garner in medical school had slowly drifted away. Little life rafts that hadn’t been strong enough to save me from these raging storms.
The bridal march began, achingly sweet music by a live string quartet flown in from Croatia. My heart began to beat, to race. My ring finger felt heavy, dripping with unwanted diamonds—a shackle that would bind me to this life forever.
“I suppose this is it,” my father said, as if he was preparing himself for surgery, and not walking his daughter down the aisle. “He’s a good man for you, Allie.”
I swallowed around the massive lump in my throat and nodded.Ever practical, Dr. Wells.
The doors opened, and the church glowed with light pouring through the stained-glass windows. The ceilings felt as if they were vaulted into the heavens, the room cavernous and magnificent and otherworldly.
I barely remembered my feet moving, pulling me through a sea of faces I didn’t recognize. Was there anybody I loved here? I suppose I loved my parents, in the way that the Wells family loved one another—practically, and without emotion, and just a little stilted and stiff.
And Simon. I was supposed to love Simon, too.
I reached the finale of the endlessly long aisle and stood before my husband-to-be. I tried to muster up butterflies and excitement and really, anything that wasn’t utter and complete dread. I was not successful, not one tiny iota.
“Allie.” Simon gave me a taut smile. “Nice to see you.”
Nice to see you,I echoed in my head, mystified at his choice in greeting.
Not—You look beautiful.
Not—I am madly, breathlessly in love with you.
Not—I cannot wait to marry you.
No, all I got was a “Nice to see you,” like we were two acquaintances passing in the subway. In line for coffee. Waiting at a crosswalk for a green light.
“How do I look?” Simon added, giving me a little smile and eyebrow waggle. Along with a temper, he’d always had a healthy dose of narcissism.
