Jesus Christ.
Literally.
Yesterday—in a quick call in between the wedding rehearsal and dinner—Hattie asked me to try to find a spot to sit on the inside aisle as close to the altar as I could, but even twenty minutes before the service begins, most of the pews are filling, if not full.
I find an empty space on the aisle just six rows from the rear, and I text Hattie to let her know I’m here. She may not have her phone handy, so I don’t expect to hear back. But when I do, I have to fight a laugh. As usual.
Hattie: SO.
MANY.
PICTURES.
Hattie: IF THAT PHOTOGRAPHER TELLS ME TO “SMILE, LIL SIS,” ONE MORE TIME, HE’S GOING TO BE EATING HIS NIKON.
When I bark a laugh, the woman next to me shoots me a sour look.
Me: Just give me the word, and I’ll ask him to step outside.
I add a series of emojis including a fist, a bang, and a skull and crossbones to make her laugh.
She hearts the message, and I’m guessing she’s been pulled away to bridesmaid duties when a few minutes pass. But then another text comes through.
Hattie: MY FEET HURT. MY FACE HURTS. EVEN MY HAIR HURTS FROM THESE STUPID FLOWERS AND BOBBY PINS. MOM MADE ME WEAR A BRA—WITH UNDERWIRE—AND I’M LITERALLY SECONDS FROM RIPPING EVERYTHING OFF AND STREAKING THROUGH THE CHURCH, AND SCREAMING “LIL SIS BE CRASHING OUT!” AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS.
Fuck.
Okay. She isn’t just letting off steam and trying to make me laugh. And I’d like to help my girl if I can.
I glance at the time. We still have ten minutes.
Me: Where are you right now?
Hattie: ???
WITH MARGARET AND THE OTHER BRIDESMAIDS.
Me: But where exactly?
I look back toward the nave, but there’s no sign of the bridal party. My guess is that they’re tucked in an antechamber near the entrance.
Me: Never mind. I’ll find you.
I don’t want to lose my seat, so I whip off my suit jacket and drape it over the back of the pew.
Spot back, no spot jack.
And then I’m moving fast against the flow of ushers and guests. A scan of the nave reveals a promising corridor off to the right. In addition to restrooms, there are a few other doors that look like they could hide a bridal party, but I’m not about to open any to find out.
Me: I’m in the hallway by the bathrooms near you, I think. Can you come out?
I see when she’s read the message, but she may not be here at all. The church grounds are extensive. Maybe the bridal party isn’t even inside the cathedral proper. I’m just about to call her to find out where she is when a door at the end of the corridor opens, and Hattie pokes her head out.
“Beck!” she exclaims in a not-so-quiet whisper. She pops into the hall and closes the door behind her.
“You look beautiful—” I’m already regretting leaving my suit jacket as a placeholder. Because with ivory rosebuds in her artfully dressed hair, the skirt of her floor length gown rippling like a sage sea as she moves, Hattie looks every inch the fairytale princess, and I—no surprise—am the country bumpkin gaping before her.
But she waves away my words with an agitated hand. “I don’t think I can do this.” She sounds panicked as she rushes to me. “I’m trying to hold it together, but my body?—”
