“You know what else is common sense?” I hiss. “Not being a complete c—”
The rattle of the changing room curtain cuts me off, and Renee and I zip ourselves up, silent and attentive. Guilt hits my chest like a wrecking ball.What’s wrong with me?I think.Why can’t I keep my stupid mouth shut?
But when Virginia steps out in the last dress of the day, every thought evaporates from my brain except for one:Wow.She takes one cautious step forward, then another, and it’s like I can see the aisle forming around her. Taylor Swift’s “Wildest Dreams” plays faintly through the speakers, a violin over a heartbeat, and it occurs to me that, if Gin and Rishi’s love had a soundtrack, it wouldn’t be stacked with these emotional, romantic power ballads. It would sound like karaoke bars and dating-app notifications. Same goes for most of the couples I know. But seeing Gin in this dress, something clicks into place. I get it. She looks the way this song sounds—grand and dramatic and beautiful—and I wonder if that’s what weddings are for. Are we trying to create something—an event, a party—that feels the way being in love does? Big, special, indulgent…there’s something to be said about turning that feeling into an external reality. Dad’s funeral was the same. The memorial concert will be, too. Maybe grief is just a long, lonely marriage to a person who no longer exists.
“Alice?”
I jolt in my seat and resettle into reality. Right. The bridal shop. Where Virginia Bennett has been transformed, veil and all,into a proper bride. And I’ve been…what? Staring into space and dissecting the role of ceremony in major life milestones? I’m genuinely afraid I’m going to open my mouth and what will come out isActually, Gin, when I saw you in this dress, I started thinking about my dad’s funeral!
“What do you think?” Gin’s voice is dipped in hope.
She’s a vision. She’s a bride. “You look like a love song,” I tell her softly.
Gin’s hands fly up to her face, steepling over her nose as the sniffles begin, and my heart pinches. Renee digs a pack of tissues from her purse, but it’s soon obvious that they’ll be as much help as a single bucket bailing out theTitanic. Gin’s shoulders begin to shake, and her crying evolves into full-body sobbing.
“Oh, honey.” Chrissy jumps up to hug our bride, and Renee’s blond hair whips back and forth as she searches for more tissues. I feel my pockets, including the pocket of my sweatshirt, and an idea smiles up at me in the form of a cartoon beaver. I peel off my sweatshirt, down to sleep shorts and a ribbed gray tank, but what’s the damage at this point? I wad up the sweatshirt and pass it to Gin.
“Go nuts,” I say. “Seriously. My clothes are your Kleenex.”
Gin nods through sputtering breaths, then blows her nose into the sleeve, and I almost feel proud. Almost. Mostly, I’m glad that Gin’s sobbing dies down, and Chrissy touches up her makeup so she’s a photo-ready bride. There’s a list of requisite pictures to capture: one of Gin in the dress and another back in her street clothes while holding theI found the gown at Kilpatrick’s!sign. Rose insists upon a group photo, and my attempt to cover my bralessness with some clever arm positioning leaves me looking like a broken puppet.
It’s an awful photo of me, and Chrissy immediately sets it as her lock screen. “I love this picture. It reminds me of the ones from Galena.” She zooms in on me and my mess of bed head. “I mean, c’mon. Classic Alice, right?”
The words sear into my chest.Classic Alice.I could’ve sworn I left her in the past.
We celebrate the single most expensive purchase of Gin’s adult life over brunch at a bar and grill down the street. It doesn’t seem like the sort of venue to order a bottle of champagne, but Chrissy gets one anyway, and I put in two orders of mozzarella sticks, just for myself. “Sorry,” I say to no one in particular. “I didn’t have time to eat breakfast.”
“You didn’t have time for a lot of things this morning,” Renee quips, and Gin shoots her a look she absolutely deserves. I probably deserve it more, though. What kind of adult woman can’t properly set an alarm?
Once the champagne arrives and the waitress collects our orders, Gin proposes a toast.
“To the best family a girl could ask for.” She lifts her glass high. “I couldn’t do any of this without you.” She proves that point when, after a sip of champagne, Gin begins conducting check-ins on each of our bridesmaid assignments.
Chrissy is first, promising “a bridal shower to end all bridal showers.” A bold claim, but she’s a bold gal.
“Same restaurant as the engagement dinner, right?” Gin confirms.
“Yes, but…remember that patio you loved so much?”
Gin frowns. “They told me they didn’t rent it out for private parties.”
“They don’t.” Chrissy lifts her champagne once more. “Unless the event manager is your boss’s brother.”
They clink glasses, laughs swirling together, and I file away the knowledge that Chrissy does, in fact, have a boss.
“What about the bachelorette party?” Gin turns to Renee, who straightens in her seat.
“Everything is just about booked,” Renee promises. “I’ll send out the itinerary by the end of next week.”
Gin looks pleased. Bridal shower? Check. Bachelorette? Check. I tense when her mossy eyes land on me, but before I can decide whether or not to lie, she winks. “I’m not worried about your speech. You have plenty of time.”
She’s right, of course. So why do I still feel like I’m falling behind?
“Let’s talk about the main event, though.” Chrissy props her elbows on the table and rests her chin on both fists. “How is wedding planning going?”
“Great.” Gin shrugs. “There’s really not that much to do.”
Renee’s laugh is a two-toned ambulance siren. “That can’t possibly be true.”
