Robyn sits at the vanity in the corner, not moving so much as a muscle, while the hairdresser, Yvette, works a curling wand through the last section of her hair.
“You’re barely even breathing,” Cath tells Robyn. “Like you’re afraid moving will undo all of Yvette’s hard work.” She giggles.
“I am afraid of exactly that,” Robyn says, eyes locked on the mirror. “Don’t talk to me. I’m concentrating on being a mannequin.”
“I don’t blame her,” I say. “I’d sit like a statue too if someone spent that long on me.”
“You say that, but you fidget through everything,” Cath says.
“That’s true,” I say. “My hair has nowhere near as much curl as the two of you.”
Cath laughs and puts her phone down on the bed next to her.
“I have an idea,” she says. “Let’s have half a glass of champagne. Just enough to take the edge off. I’m sure you’re nervous?” she asks her sister.
“I feel pretty okay, actually,” Robyn says.
“So that’s a no, then?” Cath levels her with a stare.
“It’s a hell yes,” Robyn says, without moving her head so much as an inch. She does move her eyeballs all the way to the side.
Yvette laughs, pins the last section into place, and steps back to admire her work.
“That’s you done,” she says, already packing up her kit bag. “Don’t touch it, don’t lie down, and try not to cry until after the ceremony.”
“No promises,” Robyn says. “You are a miracle worker.”
“I had a very pretty canvas.” Yvette smiles. “That goes for all three of you.”
Yvette says her goodbyes and lets herself out, and the front door clicks shut a minute later.
“Perfect timing,” Cath says, and slips out toward the kitchen.
“You look great,” I tell Robyn.
“So do you.” Robyn smiles at me.
There’s a distant pop and hiss of a cork letting go.
“So this is it,” I say.
Robyn bites her bottom lip just as Cath returns with a chilled bottle in one hand and three glasses hooked between her fingers in the other. She pours each of us a small measure.
“To Robyn,” Cath says, lifting hers. “To the best day of your life, sis.”
“To Robyn,” I say. “To your big day, my friend.”
We clink glasses, and Robyn takes a huge gulp, closing her eyes like she’s savoring a religious experience.
“Oh, I needed that,” she says. “After weeks of green juice, and I forgot what joy tastes like.”
I laugh, and so does Cath.
I bring mine to my lips and take a sip, and something about it isn’t right. It’s flat, almost sour at the back of my throat, like it’s been open too long, even though I watched Cath crack the seal myself.
I glance at Cath and Robyn, who are both drinking theirs without complaint, Robyn already halfway through hers.
Weird.
