I am so not a wedding kind of girl.
That’s right. I’m about to walk down the aisle of the church the Stackhouse family has gone to for however many generations they’ve been in San Francisco and take my fiancé Andy as ‘my lawfully wedded husband,’ or whatever our vows say—and I’m thinking this is just not my jam.
I don’t have anything against marriage. Obviously. If I did, I wouldn’t have said yes to Andy’s popping-the-question at a Giants baseball game, where he paid someone to let him propose on the stadium’s jumbotron so I could answer in front of forty thousand some-odd baseball fans waiting with bated breath to see if I’d say yes or no.
Andy wasn’t wondering what I’d say, though. He knew he’d get the answer he wanted.
He’s confident that way.
That’s how he made it to the San Francisco City Council, and why he’s being talked about as a future mayor.
And I do honestly want to marry him. He’s good-looking, from a long-time San Francisco family like me, is smart and ambitious, and isn’t after me for my money.
Within days of Andy’s proposal, where, by the way, the Giants lost the game, the wedding industrial complex descended on me, ramping from zero to sixty so fast I never had time to think through the gravity of what I was about to do. Emotionally buried in lace, ten different kinds of silk, tasting menus, gift registries, invitations, and parties, I was swept along in an alternate universe in preparation for the ‘happiest day of my life.’
WTF? I’m twenty-seven years old. If my wedding day is indeed the ‘happiest day of my life,’ does that mean all the years ahead of me are going to be rank with disappointment?
If this is the pinnacle, the best it gets, I am screwed.
But screwed or not, today is the big day. The priest just popped his head into the bride’s room—which is really not much more than a closet—to say a couple nice things. My besties, Lucy and Gilly, are buzzing around me like a thousand other brides haven’t stood exactly where I am right now, ready to walk down the aisle and become a state-sanctioned couple who mostly just want health insurance and a tax break.
I’m cynical that way.
“You do look really nice, Petal,” my third bridesmaid says.
Andy’s twin sister, Aliz, smooths her hand down the billowing sleeve of my boho wedding dress, shaking her head and clicking her tongue.
Almost like she’s… sad?
I get it. She’s symbolically saying goodbye to her twin brother. But hey, I’m not selfish. She can still hang out with him whenever she wants and do their twin thing. Whatever that might be.
“All good, Aliz?” Gilly asks, adjusting her boobs in the dress I mistakenly let her choose.
I gave all three of them free rein in picking their own bridesmaid dresses because, like I said, I couldn’t give a crap about how weddings are supposed to work. I figured they’d band together and choose something that worked on each of their figures, but also show some sort of theme, like similar style and color for the sake of aesthetics.
Only it didn’t turn out that way. They each chose something completely different and by the time they had, it was too late for me to offer any suggestions.
Whatever.
I had enough other shit on my mind, like how to be ‘bridal’ without looking like the Barbie ‘Wedding Fantasy’ doll I inherited from an older cousin when I was about ten, which looked like Dolly Parton going to a hoedown.
“I… I have to tell you something, Petal,” Aliz says. She’s pale under all the makeup I paid a lot of money for someone to put on all our faces this morning.
“What, Aliz? You feeling okay?” I ask.
Music starts playing from somewhere deep inside the church. Time for us to queue up for our walk down the aisle.
Lucy moves for the door. “C’mon guys. That’s our signal.”
We start to follow, but Aliz is rooted in place. She sighs, looks around the room, then down at her dress and her perfect manicure. “I’m okay, Petal. But you… might not be.” She swallows with a grimace, like she just tasted something bad.
I freeze. Lucy and Gilly freeze.
The church music keeps playing. Our cue to begin the procession passes. I don’t really care though, because it’s not like they can start the wedding without me.
Lucy grips my arm, I’m not sure whether to pull me out of the room and put me into position, or to help me brace for something. “What do you mean, Aliz? What do you mean that Petal might not be okay?” Her voice gets higher with every word.
I look at the clock on the wall. Five after the hour. We’re still within the realm of respectable lateness. Weddings never start exactly on time. My mother, queen of organizing events, told me this.
Aliz runs a finger along her hairline like she’s mopping up perspiration. Come to think of it, she is looking a little shiny. “Look, Petal. My brother is an asshole. You need to know this.”
She’s joking right? I mean, Andy’s her brother. Of course, she thinks he’s an asshole from time to time.
“Why are you telling me this now?” I ask in a quiet voice.
With a sigh, she leans closer, even though everyone in the room can hear her just fine. “What I mean, Petal, is that I’m pretty sure my brother’s sleeping with Jessica. You know, his friend from college.”
I can smell the mint on her breath, clean and fresh and pretty, just like she is, an excruciating contrast to the words she just uttered.
Which were just ridiculous, anyway. A loud guffaw, not at all bridal or even ladylike, explodes from my throat, and I wave my hand like there’s a fly in my face.
“Aliz, I love your sense of humor, but now is not the time to fuck around. Let’s go, girls. People are waiting on us.” I step toward Lucy, where she’s holding the door for me.
The church music starts again, from the top, like it’s on a loop. Except I know it’s not. They are replaying the processional music because no bride’s walked down the aisle yet.
“I saw them together, Andy and Jessica. I did,” she says apologetically. “They’re playing hide the… bouquet. If you know what I mean.”
I roll my eyes. “Aliz, this is not cool.”
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous, pulling something like this on a woman about to get married.
And Jessica stick-up-her-ass Lynch? No way. Andy even told me once how uptight she is, and that he can only take her in small doses. I questioned inviting her to our wedding, but he said it wouldn’t be right to leave her out when the rest of his college gang would be there.
I elbow my way out of the bridal room in my ballet flats, chosen for comfort, and march up to the doors where I will start my walk down the aisle. Lucy, Gilly, and Aliz, who gives me one last sad smile, step in front of me. One by one, they lead the way toward the altar and my soon-to-be-husband, just as we rehearsed the night before.
I have no father, so am walking solo. My mother wasn’t crazy about the idea and offered to walk me herself, but when I said no, she grumbled about how independent I’ve always been, the downside of being an only child.
My bridal procession, tackled alone, is somewhat of a blur. I nod and smile at the guests, a real who’s-who of San Francisco. But in spite of my comfy shoes, I walk stiffly, like my flats are suddenly two sizes too small, causing me great pain, and forcing me into an awkward gait. At the same time, a stabbing pain stretches across my lower back, like someone just kicked me there. No matter how hard I try, I can’t move gracefully, Aliz’s words bouncing around in my head, despite my trying to chase them away. From the faces of a couple of my longtime friends in the pews, they know something is up. The folks who don’t know me as well? They have no idea. At least I’m fooling someone.
I see from the corner of my eye the bridesmaids taking their spots to the left of the altar. I don’t look directly at them for obvious reasons, and in moments, I’m standing there in front of my handsome Andy. When I look for a sign, any sign, that will reassure me Aliz is full of shit, playing a joke, or just being mean—although she’s really nice and would do none of those things—he beams back at me.
Relief washes over me. I’m ready. Ready for this wedding, ready to be married, ready to be Andy Stackhouse’s wife, and for him to be my husband.
And then I see it.
His gaze shifts, only for a moment, to Jessica, sitting in the second row. It’s brief and I might have missed it if I hadn’t been looking, but I see something in his eyes reserved for her and only her. It’s the kind of look he’s never given me, like a private conversation or something. I feel like I should look away to grant them some privacy but for cripe’s sake, this man’s about to be my husband and if he’s going to look at anyone that way, it should fucking be me. He’s not even trying to be slick.
Aliz was right, the man is an asshole.
I read somewhere that all jumbotron proposers are assholes. I should have paid attention.
I’m a cliché. A goddamn cliché. Like the dummy on a reality show who has no idea what’s going on around her until it’s too late.
My heart shatters right there because, while I’m so not a wedding girl, I really did want to marry Andy Stackhouse, and while I never counted on this to be the best day of my life, I also didn’t count on it being the worst.
* * *
