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“It’s my understanding that friends don’t kiss each other. Am I missing something?”
I toe the ground, annoyed at my frustration. “No, it’s fine. I just don’t want to be surprised when we’re on the float in the middle of the parade and you do kiss me, and it’s so bad the audience reads the disgust on my face.”
His responding chuckle makes it clear he’s not taking the bait.
“If you want me to kiss you, all you have to do is ask.”
“Fat chance.”
He nods. “Then I guess we’ll wait.”He meant what he said. At our next rehearsal in the studio, Derek’s lips never touch mine. Not that it actually matters because every other part of our bodies touch. It’s the choreographer’s fault. During the parade, we don’t just get married and then walk off the float. After our kiss, Derek is supposed to twirl me around and we dance while fireworks explode overhead. All of this means his hands are everywhere while we practice: grabbing my waist, pressed against my spine, holding my arm, tilting my chin, cradling my neck, catching me that one time I nearly fell on my butt after an overzealous spin. Rehearsing for this parade is the most intimate thing I’ve done outside of sex.
Scratch that.
It’s more intimate.
I could stand in front of a wall of paint samples at Home Depot and pinpoint the exact shade of Derek’s lips. I’ve studied them in great detail. His eyes too. I already knew they were brown, but they’re actually ringed with pale gold and filled with words that remain unspoken.
Once we transition to practicing on the floats, we’re joined by other crew members. The Costuming Department—led by Carrie—starts to dress us in pieces of our wardrobe so they can assess fit and movement. While Carrie places my veil on my head, I scowl at her. She’s unable to meet my eyes because she knows she’s been a very bad, no good friend.
I’m still slightly annoyed that she didn’t give me a warning about my nuptials with Derek. Immediately following our first rehearsal, I ran straight to her apartment to confront her. She wasn’t there, so I had to pace in the lobby, anger intensifying with every pivot. When she finally arrived, happy to see me, I pounced on her with all the accusations I’d been gathering in her absence. Why didn’t you tell me about the wedding and I thought we were friends and do you have a sketch of my dress on you by chance and never mind, that’s beside the point HOW DARE YOU.
I hiss at her now. “I still can’t believe you kept this a secret from me. You knew Derek and I were going to have to get married in the parade. You designed my wedding dress!”
“I’m sorry, okay? Like I said, I sign nondisclosure agreements about this stuff. It’s supposed to be kept under wraps.”
“That’s such a cop-out!”
As a rule, Carrie and I sign those and then immediately run to one another to share any and all secrets we’ve gathered. It’s called friendship. Look it up.
“Fine. Okay. I didn’t tell you because Thomas and I agreed it was better if you and Derek didn’t know.”
“Oh, so is Thomas your new best friend now?”
I sound like an eight-year-old on the playground. It’s either him or me! We can’t both fit on this seesaw!
“Don’t act like this is the worst thing ever,” she says, glaring like she’s got me pegged. “Your dress is going to look amazing and Derek is going to eat his heart out when he sees you in it. What’s the big deal anyway? You said yourself, you and Derek are friends. This should be fun! Now hold still so I don’t accidentally stick this comb into your scalp.”
Lovely.
My best friend is keeping secrets from me, and while karma should be smiting her, in reality, she’s having the time of her life during all of this. As the executive producer of the parade, Thomas is present for all of our rehearsals now too. He and Carrie stand together during the run-throughs and I catch their little smiles and teasing banter. Like a cranky drunk, I want to shout at them to get a room. Instead, I channel my rage into rehearsals. I’m the best damn bride anyone has ever seen. I wear that veil like it’s a superhero cape. I stare up at Derek while he leans over me and I keep my lips clamped shut, unwilling to admit that I’ll DIE if he doesn’t just kiss me already.
“It seems like you really want to ask me for something,” Derek teases, leaning over me. “Whitney, c’mon. I can’t read lips. You’ll have to tell me what you want.”
I’m gasping. Then I recover.
“I want you to let go of me so I can go get some water.”
