One
The fight-or-flight response has always been a fascination of mine. Partly because, whether through necessity or personality, I’ve always been quick to fight. I’m a fighter. Well, ok, not in the literal sense (although I once punched a dear friend in the face because he paid me to after one too many tequilas, and I broke a finger). But I amconfrontational. I bite back when barked at. It’s who I am.
So naturally, I don’t like this queasy feeling, or the jittery shakes in my fingers. And I’m definitely not enjoying the whirling, anxious thoughts morphing into a full-blown headache.
And worse still, none of it is firing me up for a fight.
No, it’s telling me torun. And that would be fine.
Totally fine.
It’s just a shame it’s my wedding day.
I stare at my reflection as a rainbow-coloured dildo passes over my shoulder, mid-flight. The hair stylist flinches as she adds the final bobby pins into my tight bun. Behind me, my younger sisters – Abby, Gemma and Millie – are pure frenetic energy. With their blonde hair styled, makeuppristine, their lovely, dusky pink dresses zipped up, and their heels strapped on, the three of them have grown impatient.
“Watch out!” Abby says, ducking to avoid the dildo as it ricochets off the wall. Millie, my youngest sister, the culprit, picks it up and wags it in the air. “Really?” I sigh. “Can you not destroy this hotel room, please?”
She spins on me with an eye roll. “It’s hardly going to break anything. It’s rubber.”
“There’s no way that’s rubber,” Abby interjects, shaking her head. Ever the nerd of the family. “If anything, it’s soft plastic.”
Millie scoffs. “Who the hell made you the expert of dildos?”
“I’m just stating facts.”
“Dildofacts.” Millie grins, the accomplished antagonist that she is.
“Will you both shut up.” Gemma steps in, but as always, it’s only to press her own agenda. She tilts her head and forces a smile. “Sara, Brad wants to see me before the ceremony. You don’t mind, right?”
I let out a slow breath, but it’s ragged. Panic tightens my chest. And of course, the extra-large dildo whizzes past my head again. I stifle a scream.
Must remember to pick my battles.
Besides, beyond my gut-wrenching anxiety about today and the tension gathering at the base of my skull, I promised myself I wouldn’t morph into bridezilla. I’ve taken extra precautions to avoid this likelihood, such as, pretending I’m not that fussed aboutanythingto do with the wedding.
Wrong flowers arrived?Oh well.
Guest no-shows?Who cares.
Rain forecast?That’s just as well.
Signs everywhere?Who believes in signs?!
I even hired a wedding planner for this specific reason, and yet wrangling my baby sisters is proving an even bigger job than planning a wedding. I shoot Gemma a look, who shrugs apologetically but turns her attention back to her phone. I know if I ask her to ignore her toxic, too-old-for-her boyfriend untilafterthe ceremony, the curtains will come down on that one and I’ll be labelled the worst bridezilla to have ever bridezillered.
I can feel myself really starting to spiral when a soft hand squeezes my arm. Hattie, one of my best friends since university and my maid of honour, gives me a reassuring smile before quickly inserting herself.
“Can I see that dildo?” she asks Millie politely, who frowns, reluctantly passing it over for inspection.
Hattie scrunches her nose at it, steps up to the open window and flings it out. Whatever itismade of, it certainly lands with a dramaticthwack. I can only hope it hasn’t hit any guests on its descent.
“Hey!” Millie complains. “That was Sara’s wedding gift from me.”
“That’s so weird,” Hattie says, shaking her head. “And Gemma, pass me your phone please.”
Gemma eyes me suspiciously as if Hattie and I have some form of telepathy. She regards the window before handing it over. In fairness, I understand her wariness, Hattie has been known to act on impulse – she’s as fizzy as her wild, strawberry-blonde hair.
The stylist tuts at my constant movement, and I quietly apologise.
