“No, and I think you know me well enough to know that’s not what I meant. I’m not saying you should end it with him, but when you left Texas last week you told me you were coming home to tell Henry you still loved Christian.”
“I was wrong!” I shout, pulling away, and flashing my friend a warning look.
“I’m not trying to upset you. I just don’t want you to make any rash decisions.”
“That’s exactly what I was doing with Christian. I’d been away from Henry for months, we were barely talking, I was lonely, and it gave Christian the opening to work his way in, and make me have doubts.”
“Sweetie, all I’m saying is why not postpone the wedding? It might be easier on Henry,” Emmie suggests.
“Henry wants to get married as badly as I do. I’m just thankful I didn’t do anything with Christian that I can’t undo,” I explain, doing my best to keep the volume of my voice in check.
“Fine, I care about you and—”
“You promised,” I remind her.
“I know—no telling Colin or Christian about Henry’s illness. And I won’t. If you’re sure this’s what you really want, and not just because Henry’s sick, then I won’t say another word about it,” Emmie relents.
I take a step forward, firmly grasping my friend’s hands with my own, my voice shaking and my eyes burning with tears. “I love Henry and … I don’t know, I guess— some part of me still loves Christian. But what I had with Christian is in my past, and that’s where it should stay. I knew that the moment Henry told me about the cancer; it was like an elephant was sitting on my chest. I couldn’t breathe or think. I need him to be all right, because he’s my other half, and I love him. I can’t live without him.”
“I won’t say a word,” Emmie repeats in almost a whisper. “You two will get through this.”
Emmie opens her arms and pulls me into an embrace. It feels like her arms wrap around me five times, with warmth I so desperately need. An acceptance and understanding that I’ve been seeking since I told her. A comfort only my best friend can provide.
“It’s going to be such a long road. He’s been dealing with the headaches for so long he hardly sleeps. I noticed he even has trouble walking sometimes. What am I going to do?”
Emmie squeezes me tighter. “You’re going to fight. You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever known. If anyone can do this, you can.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, a tear breaking free and running down my cheek.
LITTLE GIRLS DREAM about that perfect day, the one when they walk down the aisle and marry their soul mates, their white knights. It’s what fairytales are all about. What’s never in the fairy tale is finding out the prince has cancer.
Henry’s grandmother has taken care of all of the details regarding the big day with impeccable detail. There’s a level of elegance and sophistication that would have left any bride awestruck. The flowers are classic with a mixture of lilies and roses. Though I’d planned on designing the bridesmaids dresses myself, I hadn’t had time, but luckily Gram came through on those as well. They are a lovely muted gray, and the color reminds me of a sky just before a storm.
The photographer’s name is Jane. I requested another company, but apparently when you decide to hide out in the South for a couple months, you get whatever you get. On a positive note, she seems to be highly qualified. As she snaps moments of the girls and me getting ready, it’s hard for me to repeatedly gather my lips into a smile. The poor woman has no idea what’s happening in my life, and it’s impossible for her to understand that the day, which should be the happiest, now has a huge cloud hanging over it.
There are morning pictures in Central Park, the artistic shots in gritty alleyways, and the obligatory chapel images captured. I can see Jane has many more pre-ceremony poses planned, but I simply can’t force another toothy, fake grin. Much to Jane’s dismay, I inform her that we have enough images with the bride, but she is welcome to continue with the rest of the girls. Considering half my bridesmaids are model friends, they are used to long photo shoots. Based on Emmie’s glare, before I duck away, I don’t think she is nearly as understanding.
When I excuse myself, I have no idea where to go. I’m dressed in my handmade wedding gown, and popping into a coffee shop alone seems like a bad idea that will invite many unwanted questions. I decide to hide out in the dressing room of the church; merely being alone with my thoughts will be enough.
There is no detail left undone. The sanctuary is beautiful, from the natural lighting that glows on the marble, to the antique candelabras at each corner of the aisles. Even with all the beauty that surrounds me, I can’t seem to shake the thoughts that have been plaguing me since my return home.