“She did take forever; you’re so late. What was her deal?” Emmie begins, but she doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Your dress is already in the changing room. I told your family I could help you get in it alone. I figured you preferred that.”
There it is again, the reason I love her. You can’t actually say the words, ‘I can’t stand my family. Can you please keep that group of toxic crazies away from me?’ Emmie just knows.
I follow Emmie quietly into the old building, marveling at the marble floors as we enter. The detailing is one of the reasons I fell in love with the chapel in the first place. Staring at the back of Emmie’s head, I notice how elegant her updo is. Her often frizzy and somewhat out of control, dingy blonde hair has somehow been tamed into a crisp and clean sweep of petite curls. I smile, thinking of Em and Colin’s wedding.
It was the perfect affair for the two of them. A country wedding at the hippie commune where Em’s mom lives suited them. Well, I’m not sure if it is officially a commune, but that’s what Em calls it. Emmie and Colin had the aisle for the wedding on one of the paths in the orchard, the number of guests very small, an intimate and perfect affair. Seemed like perfection to me. I wanted something just like it. I suppose I would have if my groom’s family hadn’t stepped in.
The Grove grew on me though, as did Em’s mom. I often find myself wishing she were my own mother. My mother is the last thing I want to be thinking about right now. It took six months to even convince myself to invite her to my wedding.
Honestly though, all I care about is the dress. When it comes down to it, they can have the rest. My life revolves around fashion these days, and it simply doesn’t seem right I release my own line and not design my wedding dress. It was a labor of love really—the massive amounts of hand-applied sheer fabrics in various shades of creams, ivories, and any other antique variation of white.
Stepping into the small room, the first thing my eyes move to is my dress. There it is, in all its glory. The grandmother of the groom tried pressuring me to wear a long train and gaudy veil. Clearly, she did not know with whom she was up against. I was in charge of what I would be wearing down the aisle.
Emmie is talking, but her words seem to fade into the background. I watch as my dear friend reaches up and pulls the garment I sank so many hours into preparing from the hanger with great care. She unfastens the hidden clasp on the side, just as I remove the last piece of clothing from my petite frame. I lift my arms over my head, closing my eyes. I don’t want to see the dress until it’s completely in place and revealed to me.
“Oh Paige—” Emmie gasps.
“What is it?” I inquire, now alarmed, spinning around to face the full-length mirror.
“You’re stunning,” Emmie replies, staring over my shoulder at the reflection. My heart sinks—I do feel beautiful—and my hands begin to sweat.
“Stay here, I’m going to see if they’ve begun seating,” Emmie instructs.
“Where am I going to go?” I joke, truly reminding myself there is nowhere to go. I am here, committed to this. And damn it, I am getting married today.
As I stare at my reflection, my mind is flooded with memories. I think of Emmie again, her happily ever after I had so envied. Unfortunately, my thoughts shift to my mother again. I lost count of her husbands and fiancés years ago. She always told me she just wasn’t lucky at love. I worry again that I am a product of her and will follow the same path of heartbreak and ruin that she did.
I’m not sure how long I stand in that small room, looking at a woman in the mirror I barely recognize. My hair, after hours in a styling chair being straightened with a flat iron, is twisted up into a very elegant hair knot. I wanted a much more natural look, but this is nice, too, and I have far too many other things on my mind to complain.
I pick at my fingernails, the thick coat of shellac something I’m not used to, but it doesn’t chip, so I simply rub the foreign layer on my usually unpolished nails, and accept it as a necessary inconvenience. I turn and look at the box on the floor, next to the chair, opening it carefully.
I wanted a handmade and vintage feel throughout the entire event, and my bouquet was no exception. I peer into the white box and marvel at the beauty of the paper flowers. A fashion designer I studied under for a few months is known for creating garments from hand-stained layers of paper. Using various colors, she rolled hundreds of small squares of paper together, sculpting a bouquet that can only be described as a piece of art.
“Hey beautiful, you ready?” I hear Colin’s voice from the doorway. Considering I haven’t seen my father since I was a little girl and none of the men my mother ever hooked up with can be considered father figures, I chose Colin to walk me down the aisle.