<<Jennifer to Beth>> Your sister Gwen is in the wedding? She’s not a teeny-tiny Tri-Delt. You won’t be the only life-size bridesmaid.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> No, you’re right. You’re right. I’m not sure why I’m getting so upset about this. This dress, this wedding. I really am happy for Kiley. And for you and every other happily married lady.
Except for that I’m not happy for you. I kind of want you all to drop dead. When Kiley showed me her ring—platinum, 1.4 carats—I really wanted to say something mean about it. Who really needs a ring that big? I ask you. It was rings that big that made our grandmothers think Elizabeth Taylor was a whore.
And then I actually did say something mean, quite a few some-things mean.
We were at the bridal shop for our first fitting (yes, already), and I said that sage green is the color of dirty aquarium water. And that polyester crepe smells like B.O. even before you put it on.
And when she told us her wedding song—of course, they’ve already picked their wedding song, and of course, it’s “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong—I said that choosing that song is the sonic equivalent of buying picture frames and never replacing the photos of the models.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> Ouch. Are you still in the wedding?
<<Beth to Jennifer>> I’m still the maid of honor.
Nobody was listening to me snipe. Kiley was trying on veils, and the other bridesmaids were too busy counting each other’s ribs to pay attention.
I felt like such a lousy human being when I left that bridal shop. I felt bad for making a scene. I felt mad that no one had noticed. I felt like the sort of person who would set something on fire just to get attention. Which suddenly seemed like a really good idea …
Setting something on fire. Something made of polyester crepe.
I couldn’t torch Kiley’s dress—not yet, I won’t even get it for 10 to 12 weeks—but I have a whole closet full of dead dresses. Prom dresses. Bridesmaid dresses. I was all prepared to scoop them up in big fluffy armfuls and throw them into the Dumpster outside my building. I was going to light a cigarette in their flames, like I was the cool girl in Heathers …
But I couldn’t. Because I’m not that girl. I’m not the Winona Ryder character in any movie. Jo from Little Women, just for example, never would have started laying all those dresses out on her bed and trying them on, one by one …
Including the off-the-shoulder number I wore to my brother’s wedding 12 years ago. It’s teal (that was 1987’s sage green) with puffy sleeves and peach rosettes at the waist. Of course it was too tight, and of course it wouldn’t zip—because I’m not 16 anymore. That’s when it hit me— I’m not 16 anymore.
And I don’t mean that in an offhand “well, obviously” way. I mean it like “Jack and Diane.” Like, “Oh, yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone.”
I’m not even the same person who could zip up that dress. That person thought that wearing an ugly dress on the happiest day of someone else’s life was just the beginning—the line you have to stand in to get to your own happiest day.
There is no such line. There’s just the waiting room scene from Beetlejuice. (Another movie where I’m not Winona.)
I had dresses spread all over the spare bedroom when Chris came home. I tried to come up with some normal reason to be wearing a dusty bridesmaid dress and crying. But he reeked of cigarette smoke and went straight in to take a shower, so I didn’t have to explain—which was even more upsetting because what I really wanted was for someone else to feel sorry for me.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> I feel sorry for you.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> Really?
<<Jennifer to Beth>> Really. I think you’re pathetic. It’s almost painfully embarrassing to read your messages when you’re like this.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> You know just what to say to a girl. Next you’ll be telling me that I’ll make a beautiful bride someday …
<<Jennifer to Beth>> You will. Of course you will. And by the time Chris gets around to asking you, I’ll bet everyone will get married in silver jumpsuits.
“WHAT DO YOU care if they pay you to sit there?” Lincoln’s sister asked.
He’d called Eve because he was bored. Because he’d already read everything in the WebFence folder. He’d read some of it twice …
Beth and Jennifer again. He didn’t send them a warning. Again. He was starting to feel like he knew them, like they were his work friends. Weird. Yet another reason to quit this job.