When we’re done, Emerson sweeps a tinge more mascara on my lashes, I slide on some lip gloss, and Karissa declares my hair is fabulous. Skyler offers me a sip from the water bottle, but I decline.
“You’re ready,” Olive says.
I am so damn ready.
I look in the mirror, draw a deep breath, and catalogue the woman I see. Bold, honest, strong, and outgoing. The dress is my best me too. A chiffon A-line, it swishes around my ankles, with cap sleeves showing off my arms. It’s simple, white, classy.
We’ll exchange our vows at five against the backdrop of the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge, then we’ll head into the art museum for a reception, surrounded by more than seventy Rodins in the galleries.
No axe-throwing, but hey, I like art, too, so it’s all good.
A deep, fortifying breath lets me put my mother all the way behind me.
Time to go.
My friends and I make our way through the Legion of Honor toward the lawn. But nature calls, and the last thing I want is to think about peeing while I’m saying my vows.
“Let me just pop into the ladies’ room,” I say to the bridesmaids when I spot the restroom.
Emerson slashes an arm in front of me like a human stop sign. “That one is too close to where the men are getting ready.” She turns me by my shoulders and ushers me down the hall the other way.
“We definitely don’t want to bump into them. Whatever would we do?” I ask in exaggerated horror. “You superstitious creature.”
She shrugs impishly. “I am what I am.”
“I’m not worried if I see him before the wedding. I don’t believe in all that stuff,” I say as we reach the other restroom.
I stop with my hand on the door because faint voices carry from the end of the hall.
A man and a woman.
Sounding…worried.
They’re familiar, but muffled, so I strain to make them out.
“I tried,” the woman whispers.
“Of course you did,” the man says, gentle, caring.
Ohhh.
That’s definitely a voice I know.
I swallow roughly, trying to understand what they’re talking about.
Emerson asks me questions with her eyes, and I bring my finger to my lips.
Gathering up the skirt of my dress, I pad as silently as possible to the corner, where I can hear more easily.
“So what now?” the woman whispers.
“There’s only one thing to do,” he says.
The rustle of clothes. The sound of lips touching lips.
My skin crawls.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
