I’m no longer . . .
I’m no longer thinking about the altar or my walk down the aisle.
Instead, I’m fully focused on Maggie. She’s perched on a table, talking to the hair stylist working on Jen’s updo.
Sweet and innocuous, her robe fastened tight.
She compliments Jen’s engagement ring. Coos at Celia’s earrings. Makes some joke about high heels.
I get another cup of coffee, which absolutely negates all the teeth bleaching I’ve done leading up to the wedding. The camera guy tracks me from chair to table and back again. Am I a bride or a zoo exhibit? I smile at him painfully.
Eyes are everywhere, and once again I need Maggie alone.
I’m going to have to approach her in the toilet stall or take her to some obscure corner of the kitchen.
Maybe the honeymoon suite, which sits camera-less and empty, waiting for tonight.
If this were a lower-budget production, I could suggest that camera A go and find Gabe, but alas, he has his own Big Brother.
I remind myself that we want this. I want this.
This televised wedding is good for us—that is, if there is still an us once I’ve had my conversation with Maggie.
It’s now or never.
“Do we have some time?” I ask Lauren and her headset.
“Time for what?” She frowns.
I take a split second to decide if wanting quiet reflection or wanting some time to throw up makes more sense, then settle on a mix of the two.
“My stomach hurts,” I say. “Just to lie down for a minute.”
“Cassidy,” says Lauren. “Your stomach does not hurt. You’re fine.”
Jen and Celia are both pinned down in their own makeup chairs, but I see them exchange a look. Jen has scooted forward, about to beg off, when Maggie stops her. She understands her role as a bridesmaid and will fulfill it, even if it’s a charade.
“I can take care of Cassidy,” Maggie says. “After our years on set together, it’s my turn, after all.”
“Be back for your turn in the chair,” Lauren says. Through her teeth, she adds, “Please.”
Maggie waves a manicured hand to say either Of course or Of course not. Lauren can’t really stop her, though—she needs Maggie even more than she needs me, and as a general rule, Maggie is much less obliging.
Maggie takes my elbow and says, “Come. Where to?” Tightening the sash of my robe, I nod in the direction of the stairs.
The halls are empty, though we can hear the bustling of the caterers and PAs as they make last-minute plans against the rain. Red plush carpeting lines the second story, and I sneak a foot out of my slipper to touch it, wondering how the staff keeps it pristine.
I’m correct in my assumption that the honeymoon suite will be unoccupied. We go in, and I immediately lock the door.