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“I’m not even dating anyone, though.”
“All the more reason to do it, assuming you want to get married one day.”
“Oh, I do. I’d love to get married to the love of my life and immediately start having a whole bunch of babies with him.” She laughs. “My biological clock is stomping its foot.”
I laugh along with her. “You should do it, then. Maybe catching the bouquet will light a fire under the universe’s ass to send you the perfect man—someone who looks at you like Jonas looks at Sarah and wants a whole gaggle of babies as soon as possible.”
“I suppose it’s worth a try,” Theresa concedes, as the emcee bellows, “Last call for all the single ladies!” Theresa beckons to me. “Come with me, Hannah. You can cheer me on.”
We bound toward the dance floor together, passing Josh and Kat talking to Kat’s parents as we go. When I see Kat, I wonder for a split-second if I should make a detour to drag her along with us to the bouquet toss. But quickly, I realize that’d be a cruel thing to do. From everything Kat has told me, she and Josh have now reached a state of joy and peace about their future together, both as a couple and as parents to their growing bun in the oven, including their mutual agreement that their future together won’t include marriage. “Josh and I don’t need a ceremony or piece of paper to make our love real or complete,” Kat told me the other day. “All we need is each other and our private promises, which we’ve made.” It was a lovely speech when Kat made it, and I knew she was trying her damnedest to believe every word of it. But I knew when she said it, she’s still dreaming of the fairytale. That was clear to me, even before today’s wedding, but that truth hit me even harder during the ceremony earlier, when Kat sobbed her eyes out during Jonas and Sarah’s heart-felt exchange of wedding vows.
“Is this everyone?” the emcee booms as Theresa and I arrive at the assembled crowd of tittering single women on the dance floor. As Theresa joins the small group in the middle, I find a nearby spot with the onlookers.
“No, it’s not everyone,” Sarah says, looking pointedly at me. She beckons to me before looking toward the back of the ballroom where Kat is still talking with Josh and her parents.
I assume Kat’s told Sarah everything she’s told me about Josh not wanting to get married, but perhaps not. Or maybe Sarah knows Kat is full of shit, the same way I do, and she’s thinking this little ritual might help her bestie get what she truly wants. Either way, I think it’d turn out badly for Kat if we drag her out here. And so, I quickly take a step forward onto the dance floor and call out, “I think I’m the last one!”
When Sarah’s eyes catch mine, I glance at Kat and then shake my head, and Sarah’s face makes clear she instantly gets what I’m trying to say. “Yep, this is everyone,” she calls to the emcee. “Let’s do this!”
A wedding coordinator whispers something to Sarah and then to the band. There’s a drumroll, and Sarah turns her back on the assembled crowd of ladies. The emcee counts down, until right on cue, Sarah heaves her pink bouquet overhead and behind her . . .
Suddenly, I feel like the only single lady out here—a singular single lady. Has everyone else skittered away like cockroaches when the lights come on? It sure feels like it.
I have no choice. I put out my arms to keep the oncoming bouquet from falling onto the floor . . . and plop. The blooms fall into my outstretched hands with zero effort asserted by me. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t even pivot or take a single step! It’s as if Sarah aimed this sucker directly at me with sniper-like precision.
When I look up, stunned, with the flowers in my hands, Sarah is jumping up and down and guffawing like crazy. She’s laughing so hard, in fact, tears are streaming down her face. I look around, and everyone is having a similar reaction. This was a set-up?
“Who’s the lucky lady?” the emcee asks.
“Hannah!” Sarah calls out, when it’s obvious I’m too shocked to speak.
“Let’s hear it for Hannah!” the bandleader shouts into her microphone, and everyone on the dance floor cheers. But nobody cheers louder than the bride, who’s still laughing herself silly as she crosses the dance floor to hug me.
“Imagine that,” Sarah coos. “Looks like you’re next, Banana.”
“You got me,” I say. I’m not upset at Sarah’s prank. Only amused. I’ve certainly never told Sarah about my general lack of enthusiasm about marriage in general, so how could she have known her bouquet would be barking up the wrong tree?
