“Okay, sure,” Amanda conceded. “But Katie doesn’t want traditional.”
Huh?I thought.Katie, who is forcing my brother to have a black-tie country club wedding, doesn’t want traditional?
Maybe Amanda was too tactful to sayboring. Because that’s exactly what vibewhite card stockgave off to me.
“I’ll show you the artist’s Instagram later,” Amanda told her mother. “Lily’s work is on trend but tasteful. You’ll like—”
“What’s so interesting back there?” she cut her daughter off, shifting her focus to me. I’d been listening to their conversation, but also scrolling through several field hockey commitments on my phone. My club team and I’d congratulated a teammate at practice the other night; she’d pledged her allegiance to Boston College.
While I had an unofficial visit scheduled with Princeton next weekend—“Nothing to take for granted,” Coach Webber had told me—I still hadn’t heard from Penn.
“Just field hockey stuff,” I told Mrs. Gallant, even though field hockey was never “just” anything for me.
She laughed as I locked my phone. “Oh, field hockey… I think we still have Katie’s old stick somewhere.”
I almost laughed, thinking she was kidding. Because Katie playing field hockey? There was no way. Beyond cheering for the Devils, she was probably the least sporty person I knew.
“Amanda was our natural athlete,” Mrs. Gallant continued, and I nodded, knowing Amanda had played basketball in college. “But Katie worked so hard, always practicing in the backyard. I remember she was crushed when her high school coach told her she wasn’t good enough to play in college.”
“That guy was such a dick,” Amanda said, but I barely heard her. My mind was whirring. Katie hadreallyplayed field hockey when she was my age? Why had she never mentioned it to me? Did Austin even know? He would’ve told me.
I sat quiet and confused in the car for the rest of the ride. For the last five years, it had felt like I’d barely gotten to know Katie. She kept herself and most of her life closed off from my family, like she didn’t want us peeking in on it.
For the millionth time, I wondered why.
Did she truly not like us?
***
Katie looked livid when her mother, maid of honor, and I pushed through the doors of Petal & Lace Bridal. A storm swirled in her eyes, her lips were in a sharp line, and I suspected her hands weren’t far from balling into fists. “What’s wrong?” Mrs. Gallant and Amanda asked, and by way of a response, Katie gestured to my fellow bridesmaids. They were all hanging out on the pale pink velvet couch that ran the length of the waiting area. But upon further observation, they weren’t “hanging out.”
They wereworking.
Yasmin, a lawyer: clickety-clack typing on her laptop.
Courtney, a therapist: speaking into her phone in soft and controlled tones, presumably to a patient.
Paige, an assistant art director at Penguin Random House: drawing something on her tablet.
Reese, a private equity associate: looking over a monstrous Excel spreadsheet taking over her computer screen, visible even from the bridal salon’s doorway.
(Dad and I’d checked out all their profiles on LinkedIn.)
“Okay, no,” Amanda said. “Nope, not happening.” She clapped her hands in a pattern she probably used to get her fifth graders’ attention.Da, da, da-da-da!“Squad!”
Four heads snapped up and over at us.
Amanda smiled. “Thank you for coming,” she said with a tiny hint of passive-aggression. “If you’ll now please put away your devices—and wrap up your call, Court—Katie and I are going to make sure we’re all checked in so we can get this party going.”
Hell, yeah, I thought, certainly hoping today would be a party; I was missing practice for this!
A receptionist led our group through an archway into a spacious room lined with racks of gowns. Svelte mannequins modeled various colors and styles, and mirrors sparkled in the bright light. We were officially in bridesmaid heaven (or hell), no wedding dresses in sight. Katie hadn’t mentioned if she’d already said yes to her dress. “Please relax and feel free to enjoy somecomplimentary champagne,” the receptionist said, gesturing to a white chesterfield couch. A bottle of bubbly and empty flutes sat on the nearby glass coffee table. “Viv, our stylist, will be out shortly to assist you.”
“Pop it, Katie!” Meredith shouted several minutes later, over FaceTime on Yasmin’s phone. We cheered after the cork flew through the air, and Katie grinned as her mom took over to pour glasses for everyone.
“No, thank you,” I said when Mrs. Gallant offered me a fizzy flute. “I’ll stick with water.” I pointed to the Poland Spring bottles.
She smiled. “You are so responsible, just like your brother.”
