She pulls out a small pair of scissors.
“No!” I lower my arm and reach for a safety pin. “I’m not keeping the dress,” I explain.
She snorts. “Seriously?”
There are so many things that can go wrong, from food, wine, or even grass stains on the dress to sweat marks on the price tag. “It’s worth trying.” I raise my arm. “Tuck it in and pin it in place, please?”
“I love your hair,” she says as she secures the price tag inside the dress. Kiara is like that. She had her shitty times too, and she knows not to dwell on those. I don’t want her pity and I don’t need financial help. I just need her to pin the stupid tag inside the dress and talk to me about something else. “Did Fabrizio do it?” she continues, talking about my hair.
Why would I splurge on a hairdresser if I can’t afford a dress? Kiara is just being nice, complimenting my updo. “Fabrizio gave me a tutorial a while back, but I did it myself,” I answer. Six French braids gather at the nape of my neck in a loose bun, a few soft tendrils curling free to frame my face.
But enough about me. My eyes are now adjusted to the van’s dim lighting. “Wow,” I say as I take Kiara in. “Just wow.” I saw her dress already, actually went with her to choose it, as well as for the fittings, but today, Kiara radiates with a glow that’s just surreal. Her hair and makeup enhance her pixie cut and thin features in a way that’s uniquely her but also more… subdued than her usual self. As if she didn’t need the artifice anymore, the armor of over-the-top smoky eyes and excessively gelled hair.
The energy she emanates comes from within, and it’s something so beautiful to witness, it brings tears to my eyes. “Marriage suits you,” I say.
I place my bridesmaid’s contribution on the small picnic table set in the middle of her van, between two large armchairs wrangled in here by her future husband just for the occasion. “Electrolytes, nuts, and a banana for you. Coke and chips for your uncle Bill, who’ll be here any minute—I just saw him park. Napkins. Band-Aids. What else do you need?”
“I have everything I need,” she says, lifting the blinds an inch to peek outside the van. Glancing over her shoulder, I smile at the sight of our small town gathered to celebrate the new couple. To the left, the closest covered bridge shimmers with fairy lights, still barely visible in the afternoon sun. To the right, party tents are lined with bistro lights, and the echoes of laughter, shrieking children, and barking dogs drift up to us. “Best place on earth,” I murmur.
“Got that right,” Kiara says. “You should go have fun,” she adds. “I’m all set here, gonna just chill and wait for Uncle Bill to walk me down the aisle.” She rummages through the bag of goodies and pulls out a bottle. “What’s this?”
“Haley’s bubbly. Wouldn’t be a party without it.”
“I’ll keep it for later,” she says, “or I’ll yawn through the ceremony.”
“I doubt you would,” I say, laughing.
“D’you want some? We could totally open it now.”
I shake my head. “I need to go pick up Mom.”
Mom is battling cancer, and at her mention, Kiara’s smile stretches downward. “How is she doing?”
I shrug. “She’s got her ups and downs.” Hopefully today’s wedding will help her mood, although the fact that we’re fighting the insurance company is weighing heavily on her. I keep tellingher it’s only money, but she’s literally making herself sick with worry.
“Tell her to come sit in here if she needs to. It’s comfy, and Uncle Bill will distract her.”
“Thanks, that’s sweet of you,” I answer, knowing Mom won’t want to impose like that.
“Hey, Willow,” Kiara adds as I open the door to leave.
“Yeah?”
She winks at me. “Keep an open mind.”
I shake my head and shut the door with a smile. Since I orchestrated Kiara and Colton finally getting together, Kiara decided it was her mission to find someone for me.
And she’s not talking about an inconsequential fling. But although I believe with all my soul that Kiara and Colton were meant to be together, theirs is a rare story.
Growing up, I saw how marriage could be a trap, especially for women, and I vowed never to fall for it.
I find Mom reading a romance in what she calls her Lazy Girl, a pink recliner with frilly ruffles I got her for her birthday two years ago. The armrests and headrest are protected with crochet overlays she made herself and washes weekly. Mom is a neat freak, and I take after her.
I lean over her to kiss her cheek, then run a finger gently along her upper lip to wipe away a smudge of lipstick. If there’s an upside to her illness, it’s that our relationship has improved, and I’m making a conscious effort to create these small moments of deeper connection. “You look beautiful, Mom.” She’s wearing her prettiest dress and comfy platform shoes, and her head is wrapped in one of the silk scarves Cassandra gave her when she started chemo. “Are you ready?” I glance at the mail onthe Formica table. Three envelopes, neatly sliced open, with soft blue logos in the upper left corner and angry red stamps across.
Hospital bills.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she says, righting the chair and standing. She’s almost as tall as me, but she’s gotten frail. I had to bring her dress down a size, and still it hangs loosely on her frame. She must have lost at least five pounds since I took the dress in for her last week. “Let me use the bathroom real quick.” She pauses and turns to me, pointing to the bills with her chin. “Don’t worry about these. Tonight is for fun. Monday will come soon enough.”
