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“What did you do to that dress?” Mom asks, coming into my dressing room at the church. I know, a church. And she’s wearing white. The ironies of this day will never cease.
I look her up and down. She’s managed to squeeze herself into a lovely Vera Wang dress—she mentioned that it was actual Vera Wang about ten thousand times last night. Completely ignoring the fact that she managed to get an actual Vera Wang because of Mr. Winter’s wealth or maybe Grandpa’s influence. It had nothing to do with anything she did. Being one of the oldest families in Boston does still come with some privileges, even if we’re almost broke.
Well, not anymore that Mom’s marrying Mr. Winters. He’s handsome and wealthy.
Again. What is he doing with Mom?
“I just had it altered a little so it fits better.” I look at Mom in the mirror.
Mom’s eyes narrow. “It fit just the way it was supposed to.”
My brows furrow. “But it was baggy and sagged in the stomach.” Not to mention the high collar that almost choked me.
Mom looks at me like, and?
“So I went and got it tailored to fit.”
She lets out a huff of frustration. “The point of a bridesmaid dress is to be ugly so you don’t upstage the bride. God, don’t you know anything? That’s it,” she declares, throwing her hands up in the air. “There’s no way you can be my maid of honor looking like that. It’s bad enough that I have a nineteen year old daughter.” She shakes her head. “I still say you should have been the fucking flower girl. Anyway. Marla will have to take your place and you can stand at the end of the line.”
I look down at the dress. “It’s still not exactly…” I pause, momentarily at a loss for words, “flattering.”
She chose the most unattractive shade of orange I’ve ever seen, sure to clash with any person’s skin tone, no matter your ethnicity. I’ve gone as natural as possible with my makeup and worn my dark brown hair in an updo, but you just can’t ignore the ugly ass frock covering my body.
Mom clucks her tongue at me. “This is my special day, Sarah Elizabeth, so don’t even start with me.”
I sigh and back down. “Of course, Mom. Whatever you want.” The path of least resistance. I know from long experience it’s the easiest way to approach conflict with Mom.
“Now, go get all the other girls together and tell Marla she’s my new maid of honor. Exchange your flowers for hers and make everyone get in their places.”
I head out.
Within twenty minutes, me and twelve—yes twelve—other bridesmaids, along with corresponding groomsmen are all corralled in the foyer of the church. Or do you call them brides-matrons at this point, considering they’re all Mom’s friends and most of them have been divorced at least once, some several times like Mom?
Only a couple others had the same idea I did and got the gowns altered. I mean, we all look ridiculous, but the rest of them look absolutely atrocious in the shiny orange sherbet fabric covering their bodies.
“Ready for this?” asks Dominick, my soon to be brother-in-law. He holds out his arm and flashes a brilliant smile at me, golden hair gleaming in the light pouring in from the high, stained glass window. He wears his hair longer than his dad, in a shaggy Cali surfer dude style that sweeps down over his forehead.
Man, this guy is just too slick. I smile back at him, but you know that overused saying, a person smiles but it doesn’t reach their eyes? Yeah, my smile is one of those kinds. Patented, pasted on, and perfectly perfunctory. The kind I always use at these kinds of engagements that I get dragged to occasionally. Mostly because of Grandpa’s ‘old money’ name or Mom’s desperation to still be included in important circles. Having a daughter that she’s ostensibly chaperoning and introducing to Boston society helps cover up some of the stink of being a desperate thrice used-up trophy wife.
But here Mom is, getting to live out her glory days once again. Wife once more, even if her husband is more the trophy than her now. Especially since Mr. Winters actually has a job in addition to being so dang pretty.
The organ music starts up.
“Sorry, I’m not the maid of honor anymore.” I ignore Dominick’s proffered arm and point to Marla, a loud woman with hair dyed a brassy red who I suspect Mom keeps around as a best friend because she makes Mom look comparatively prettier and thinner. “That’s the woman you’re escorting now. Have fun.” My smile gets a touch more genuine at the flash of dismay that crosses Dominick’s face as the groomsmen line up. I head toward an older gentleman at the end of the queue.
