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What the heck did that even mean? I flipped over to Instagram and searched our names, but it was still a lot of the same old stuff about me and him allegedly cheating and all the lies about Karina. There was nothing new or nothing that could imply I had broken his trust in any way.
The time grabbed my attention, and I jumped to my feet. I needed to go back to the bridal room and prepare my tools so they were hot and ready. When the ceremony was over, I slid my phone into my pocket and got to work.
More people joined us in the bridal room this time than had been in here prior to the ceremony, and it was getting more raucous. The photographer poked her head in and asked for all the bridesmaids to follow her to start getting pictures done while they waited for the bride.
“I’ll be done soon,” I promised. “Just two more curls that need a refresh.”
“You’re fine,” Beatrice said. She had a glow about her, and I was glad she was so happy, even if her mom was crazy.
Speak of the devil. Her mom came in and looked from me to her daughter. She analyzed the poor girl’s face and made a weird throat sound. Was she disappointed? Good heavens, I’d made Beatrice look like a freaking goddess.
“All done,” I said, putting my curling wand down and reaching for the outlet to unplug the power tools.
Florence, the Momzilla, clapped her hands in a hurrying gesture. “The photographer’s waiting.”
I looked at Beatrice in the mirror, but she seemed so happy, like nothing could ruin this day for her.
Florence’s heels clicked down the hall. “Let’sgo.”
But Beatrice didn’t hurry.
“Hey, Beatrice?” I said.
A radiant smile spread over her lips. “Yeah?”
“Are you satisfied with your hair and makeup?” Her mother’s reaction had made me critical of every curl and loop and swipe of shadow.
Beatrice looked into the tall, golden-edged mirror. Natural light poured through wide windows with gauzy curtains, making her skin glow. “I love it. I feel so beautiful.” Her breath caught, and she looked back over her shoulder at me. “Thanks for making me feel like this.”
My heart expanded, growing too large for the space my chest provided. Nothing beat the satisfaction of helping someone else feel like a million bucks. Her mother’s throat cleared again down the hall, as if the woman had just realized she wasn’t being followed yet. “You know,” I said, “It’syourday today. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Her smile grew. “I don’t care what I do. I’m just glad to finally be Mrs. Hoffman.”
She turned around, and her groom was standing in the hall, waiting for her. He reached for her hand. They were so cute, I wanted to cry. Their happiness settled over me like a cloud. I wanted that. I wanted to love a man so wholly that it didn’t even matter what darkness or irritants or frustrations lurked around us, because we were so happy to be together.
My work had made Beatrice glow, but nothing could compare to the way she brightened at the sight of her man. Curling wands and eyeliner worked some magic, but they couldn’t compare to the status of a woman’s heart. Beatrice wasn’t content and happy because I gave her a killer updo. She was overjoyed because of her heart.
I couldn’t make Rhett stay. I could never make my dad stay. Even my pathetic letter to him when I was ten had done nothing to sway him into wanting to rekindle a relationship with me. But my worth wasn’t dependent on other people’s poor choices. Just like how I wielded makeup tools with power, I also had the choice to believe I wasworth staying for.
“Hey, you can stay for dinner,” Beatrice said, leaning back into the room and knocking me from my moment.
“I’d better get going, but thanks.”
“Well, grab some food on your way out. There are hors d’oeuvres inside.”
She disappeared again. I could do that. It wasn’t a long drive back to Bellmead, but I hadn’t eaten anything yet today. I packed up all my things, piled my cases near the door, and slipped into the hall. I always dressed professionally for things like this, and often it paid off when a bride invited me to stay and eat with them. I considered it a perk of the job, but today I wanted to fill a plate with brie and parmesan-roasted brussels sprouts—or whatever fancy food they had—and be on my merry way.
Soft instrumental music played over the speakers while people milled about, eating and waiting for the bride to return from taking pictures with her wedding party. The ceremony chairs were being converted from rows to surrounding tables, and people were making a dance floor in the center of the room.
I joined the line and filled a plate, carrying it over to a tall table and setting it down while I ate. A woman in a maroon power suit set her plate on the opposite side of the table and sent me a crooked smile. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“No.” I waved my hand. “You’re fine.”
I speared a little pastry with a toothpick and popped it in my mouth.
“Bride or groom?” she asked.
“Bride. I’m just a stylist.”
