Piper
My mother cries twice before nine in the morning. Once when the makeup artist finishes my face and once when Madison pins the veil into my hair.
Both times she fans herself with whatever is closest—first a room service menu, then a copy of the itinerary—and says, “You look just like your grandmother,” which is objectively incorrect because my grandmother was four-foot-eleven with a permanent scowl. However, I have learned that, on emotional occasions, my mother doesn’t speak in facts.
“Mom,” Madison says gently, “you’re going to start everyone off.”
“I’m not crying,” Mom insists, crying.
Rowan is sitting cross-legged on the bed, eating a croissant. She’s been dressed and ready since eight, because I suspect she wants a prime seat for whatever unfolds.
“You look beautiful, Piper,” she mumbles, brushing flakes off her lap. “Genuinely. Ten out of ten.”
“Thank you.”
“Like, if I saw you on the street, I’d think,Who is that woman, and why does she look like she’s being escorted to her own funeral?”
“Rowan.”
“In a bridal way,” she adds. “Beautiful and doomed.”
“That’s not better.”
Madison points a hairpin at her. “One more word.”
Rowan mimes zipping her lips and goes back to her croissant.
I stare at myself in the vanity mirror. Lucia, the makeup artist who has been working on my face since seven-thirty, is doing one final sweep along my cheekbones.
I look perfect.
I look genuinely and objectively perfect. The hair is soft and pinned and romantic. The makeup is glowing and precise, and exactly what a bride is supposed to look like.
If someone were to cut me out of this moment and glue me to a wedding magazine, there would be no evidence of tampering.
But I can’t stop bouncing my knee.
“Honey,” Lucia says without looking up, “I need you to be still.”
“Sorry.” I plant my foot. Five seconds later, it starts again.
“Piper.” Madison’s hand lands on my shoulder from behind.
“I know, I know.” I grip the edge of the vanity table. “I’m fine.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I’m excited.”
Rowan looks up from her croissant and studies me for a long moment, as if she’s made a diagnosis and is deciding whether to share it. “She’s going to shit herself,” she announces.
Mom drops the itinerary. “Rowan Callahan!”
Rowan waves a hand. “Look at her. She can’t sit still. She’s gray under the bronzer.”
“I am not going to—” I lower my voice because Lucia is very close to my face. “I’m not going to do that.”
“You’re going to shit yourself in the church,” Rowan says with the serenity of a prophet. “I’m calling it now.”
