Mom blesses herself before rummaging through the large tote bag she always carries, the one that holds everything a person might need in an emergency.
“I have something,” she mutters, quickly pulling out items one after another. Lip balm. A phone charger. A small laminated prayer card. “I have something for your stomach. I always have something. Where is it? It’s here somewhere.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Here.” She surfaces with a small box of antacid tablets and crosses the room, pressing them into my hand. “Take two. They’ll settle you.”
I look at the box, then at my mother’s face. It’s the face of a woman who has pulled this exact move since I was six years old, when I got nervous before my first recital. I take two tablets and chew them. They taste like chalk and love.
She pats my cheek. “There’s a good girl.”
Lucia steps back and surveys me with her head tilted to one side. “Done. Don’t touch your face.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t cry.”
“I won’t.”
She packs up her kit and steps out.
Madison and Mom start a lively debate about where my veil should sit, Rowan has begun reading something on her phone, and everyone is talking. The room has that particular high-pitched, morning-of energy I've been observing from the inside for the past three hours, and I suddenly find it hard to breathe.
Holding up a hand, I tell them, “Just give me a minute.”
They pause to look at me.
I cross the room, walk into the bathroom, and close the door before locking it.
Pressing my back against the wood, I plant my feet on the cold tile and breathe.
I don’t know if I need to shit, vomit, or cry, and I genuinely can’t determine the order of priority between these three options.
This isn't normal, is it? This isn't how it's supposed to feel, right?
I’ve been told, again and again, by every magazine, relative, and well-meaning stranger who has seen my ring, that this is supposed to be the most incredible time of my life. The most magical morning. That I will look back on this day and know, deep in my bones, that it was exactly right.
So why does it feel like the last twenty minutes of a horror film?
I press my palms flat against the door behind me and stare at the ceiling.
In an hour, I’ll be standing at the top of the aisle. And everyone will turn. All of them, every single guest in those pews, every person Ezra’s mother invited, every second cousin, business associate, and person who attended out of social obligation—all of them will turn to look at me at the same time.
At me.
Only me.
Just me standing there while a crowd of people judges whether I’m an acceptable offering.
The room tilts a little, so I sit down on the edge of the bathtub.
Why are there so many people at a wedding? Why did nobody in the history of human civilization stand up and say, “Actually, what if we capped this at thirty and did it in a garden?” Why didn’t I speak up sooner? Why did I look at the guest list and think,Sure, three hundred seems reasonable?
I know why I didn’t speak up sooner.
Ezra looked so pleased when the numbers went up. His mother had already booked the venue, and Ezra said, “It’s important to make an impression, babe. This is about more than just us.” I opened my mouth and let the number stand because the alternative was disappointing someone.
The back of my eyes starts to sting.
