Man of My Dreams(64)

So why, now, as I am about to walk down the aisle, are my metaphorical feet frozen solid in their Jimmy Choos?

“Mia?” my mother calls from behind the door of the bridal room of the church.

“In here, Mom.” Where I’ve been for the last twenty minutes figuring out if I can escape through the window.

“Can I come in? The ceremony’s about to begin.”

I walk over to the door, the large mass of organza and lace hindering the simple voyage and filling my ears with sounds of crunching crinoline. I unlatch the lock and come face to face with my mother.

“Oh my God, Mia. You. Are. Stunning.” She wipes away a tear with the embroidered handkerchief I had made for today. It matches the one I gave to my dad that says ‘to remember the day I gave you away.’ I knew it would come in handy.

“Mom, are you going to cry every time you look at me today? You helped me get dressed at the house. It’s not like it’s the first time you’re seeing me.” I hate that I’m snapping at her, but it’s my fight or flight instinct kicking in. Flight wants its turn.

“I know, I know. You hate being gushed over, but I can’t help it. You’re...”

“Stunning. I know. Thank you, Mom.” I close my eyes, bringing my hands up to rub my temples, but my mother stops me.

“No! You’ll smudge your makeup. Come here, let me fluff you up and make sure everything’s perfect before it’s time to go out there.”

I want to tell her that everything can’t possibly be perfect. My stomach is doing somersaults, my head feels like it’s about to explode, and it is taking every muscle in my body to hold back the tears that want to pour out of my eyes and test out the waterproof mascara. But I can’t admit this. She’d be devastated. And so would Declan. If I pulled a Runaway Bride he’d be heartbroken.

My mother takes my hands in hers, rubbing them, sensing the need for a relaxing stimulation, perhaps. “Mia, your hands are shaking.” She drops one of my quivering hands and places the back of hers on my forehead. She shakes her head and pats me on the cheek. “Cool as a cucumber. Don’t worry, sweetie, every bride is nervous on her big day.”

Oh, Mom, you have no idea. I’m scared shitless. I can’t do this. “Yeah, I guess it’s normal.”

But it’s not normal. I swallow hard, trying to moisten the aridity of my throat. I start to see tiny black spots as I blink rapidly, my vision becoming blurry. I feel the sweat beading over my lips, threatening to spoil my perfectly made-up face. I don’t feel right. This is what claustrophobia feels like, isn’t it?

“Mom? Can you get me a glass of water?” I interrupt her adjusting the train of my dress.

When she comes back around and looks into my eyes, I recognize her infamous look of concern. I’m not sure why it’s taken so long. She’s usually very perceptive. I guess the wedding-day-mayhem is clouding her judgment today. “Mia, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’m gonna get Grace. Stay put.”

“Water, Mom. Water first. Then Grace.” I don’t elaborate. I just need something to calm me down and some H20 and my BFF will hopefully do the trick.

Minutes later, Grace rushes through the door and I guzzle down the tepid glass of church-bathroom water she hands me. Who do you have to kill for an ice cold Poland Spring? But beggars, or better yet, runaway brides, can’t be choosers.

Grace takes the cup from my still shaky grip and pins back a curl that’s escaped its hairspray captivity. “You better now?”

I want to say yes, but it’s easier to tell Grace the truth. “No, Grace. I’m not. I don’t think I can do this. I’m just not ready.”

“Okay.” She says, walking to the door and latching the lock in place. She makes her way in my direction all matter-of-factly. She’s calm and cool, exuding the unruffled attitude I wish I could have right now. “Not ready as in, you need a few more minutes or not ready as in, you need a few more years?”

Thank you, Grace for being the only one who gets it! “Time. Just time. Why are we rushing into this? I want to marry him. I love him. I can’t imagine a day without him in it, but we’re so young. Aren’t we just setting ourselves up for failure?”

The divorce rate is high these days. Something like 50%, or more, of marriages end in divorce. I don’t like those odds. It’s like putting all your money on red and hoping for the best. I’m not the type to hope for the best. I like to think things through, analyze, beat the issue ‘til it’s dead. No one gave me the opportunity to do that. They were too busy smothering and choking me with wedding plans for me to speak my mind.