October 2007
The brochures promised a golden morning light to honey my skin and make my dress look three times more expensive than it actually was.
I was supposed to wake up confident, refreshed, ready to see and be seen: my cold cream turning my face poreless, fingernails painted powder pink, teeth whitened, and those last five pounds obliterated.
Even before I raise the bedroom blinds, I can tell that the clouds have moved in.
There goes our photo shoot out in the garden.
There goes our romantic beach view. A part of me is grateful for the weather.
Let it rain. Let everybody’s makeup smear and hair go frizzy.
Cancel it all, and let me stay here in bed.
Since last night, a tent has risen on the grounds outside, and now a crew of amiable plus-ones releases plastic panels and moves accoutrements to its center in anticipation of the weather.
Coffee wafts up from the kitchen, sweet and strong.
Voices in one of the sitting rooms, the hiss of a steamer as it breathes onto a dress.
Someone walks down the hallway humming Pachelbel’s Canon.
The sweet pastoral of it all hits like a hot flash, and I open a window for air.
Here comes the flower delivery, bumping down the back drive. Some assistant runs out toward the van with a massive umbrella. The day moves forward, a runaway train.
I have two missed calls from Lauren. A text from Jen.
Nothing from Gabe.
“I’m here, I’m here. I’m sorry.” When I burst into the suite that’s been assigned for bridal prep, my contrition is mostly performance.
The old adage that the show can’t start until the star is ready isn’t true of Reality TV—Lauren and crew have shot getting-ready B-roll, they’ve tested lighting and angles, they’ve spitballed story and walked the grounds.
All the things I used to do while we waited for Maggie McKee to be ready, the team has done today while waiting for me.
Jen and Celia sit in matching bridesmaids’ robes, double-fisting champagne and black coffee. Celia betrays nothing of her hangover. She’s wearing a pimple patch on her chin, which is how I know the cameras haven’t been in yet.
“It’s all happening!” Her squeal is entirely sincere. “You’re getting married.” She almost sings it, extending the vowel.
“You’re getting married on TV.” Jen sounds more the way I feel: incredulous, despite the filming we did yesterday, the evidence around us.
Folded C-stands rest stacked on their cart.
The makeup chair sits ready. The garment bag hangs from a stand-alone clothes rack.
The crew has set up umbrellas for the lights.
“You guys haven’t seen Gabe this morning, have you?” I ask.
Jen shakes her head. “But I’m sure he’s where he’s supposed to be. One of these people,” she gestures, unsure what term to use for the crew bustling around us, “would have told us if he wasn’t.”
“Do you need me to give him something? Get something from him?” Celia is ready for action, intent on taking her maid of honor role seriously. She puts down her plastic champagne flute and hops off her chair.
Maybe I should tell my friends what Gabe said last night, let them do more for this wedding than just help me choose dresses and finalize place cards.
Yesterday I was too shocked to say anything, but now I’m clearer headed.
My friends have seen me through the many stages of my relationship with Gabe.
What’s one more drop of the roller coaster?
Of course I’m embarrassed to be here on my wedding day, rehashing the same doubts I had four years ago. But I swallow that embarrassment. These are my best friends. They can help me.
I’m about to speak, ready to tell them about what I overheard.
Before I can begin, a camera light blinks on, and there’s a shuffling outside the door.