Twenty – Two
Harper
My daughter has managed to wedge half a ribbon into her mouth before we even reach the coat check.
The other half is looped through the fist of her chubby hand, tugging against the silk like she’s trying to separate it from my dress.
If she succeeds, the rest of the bridal party will be doing their walk without me, because this dress is the only thing currently holding me together.
I stare at Grace, who blinks back with the wide-eyed innocence of someone who absolutely plans to projectile spit up on me the second I let my guard down. She is, as of last week, six months old and fully committed to making my life an extreme sport.
Next to me, Alexander stands in the foyer, his suit as crisp as the morning air and our daughter strapped to his chest in a soft grey carrier.
I have no idea why he looks so comfortable doing this, but I suspect it’s the same reason he once assembled a flat-pack cot at three am without uttering a single swear word.
He’s built for long games and manual labour.
Leo is three steps ahead of us, which is an improvement on his usual five.
He’s in a button-down shirt with the collar already escaping his neck, and the little pocket square I tucked in ten minutes ago now looks like it’s been removed and refolded by a toddler.
I try to smooth his hair as he bounces ahead, but he dodges me with surprising effectiveness.
The wedding is in a converted heritage hall.
Which is a fancy way of saying it used to be a church, then a community theatre, then a basketball court, and now hosts only the highest forms of contemporary trauma.
Nuptials and corporate networking events.
Tonight, it’s Elsie’s turn, and the whole place has been scrubbed within an inch of its stained-glass life.
The foyer is strung with Edison bulbs and choked with white florals, the scent of gardenia so thick I’m convinced it will take up residence in my hair for the next six months.
The room is a riot of pastel dresses, anxious parents, and the soft anticipation of a group of guests who are keen to get the show on the road. I do a quick internal audit:
1) My book is still number one, six weeks running, which makes me both inexplicably proud and vaguely suspicious that something is about to go wrong.
2) Ethan told Leo yesterday that he’s moving interstate for work, starting next month.
He framed it as a “new adventure,” then called me afterwards to make sure I was “still cool” with their Christmas plans.
I told him I was fine, then sat in my car and ate a packet of Tim Tams like it was my last meal.
3) My baby is trying to eat the dress I’m supposed to be wearing in professional photographs.
Leo spots Luca at the far end of the foyer and explodes into a sprint.
It’s less of a run and more of a barely controlled tumble, arms windmilling, legs going faster than his brain.
Luca, already holding court with two women in identical blush gowns and a man in a suit so tight I’m worried for his circulation, sees the incoming threat and braces like a rugby player.
He catches Leo at the waist, swings him around, and immediately sets to fixing his collar, running both hands along the seams with a seriousness that would make a military tailor weep.
“Little man! You look like you robbed a department store,” Luca says, pressing his hand to Leo’s cheeks and squeezing until his face bunches up like a paper bag.
“Harper! He looks good, right?” This is delivered over Leo’s shoulder, directly at me.
I try to answer, but at that exact moment Grace manages to yank the ribbon fully free. She shakes it like a trophy, gumming the end until it glistens. I sigh and try to peel it away from her, which immediately results in a wail loud enough to get the attention of the entire drinks table.
Liv is already there, glass in hand. She’s in a fitted lilac dress, a slightly deeper hue than mine, with a necklace that appears to be a series of tiny gold daggers.
Her hair is slicked back in a low ponytail, and she looks at the floral arrangements like she’s considering filing a formal complaint.
She raises her glass in a silent toast as I approach.
“You look annoyingly good for someone who hasn’t slept in half a year,” she says. “Also, your kid just unwrapped you like a Christmas present.” Liv is never one to mince her words.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “she can keep it, she’s only going to eat it anyway. It’ll be gone before the first dance.”
“That’s why you’re my favourite, you don’t let things phase you,” Liv says, then tips her champagne back and resumes her silent war with the centrepiece.
Standing beside her is Adrian, who is wearing a charcoal suit and a smile that is so bright it actually surprises me.
He gives me a nod that is somehow both warm and professional, and I get the distinct impression that he’s already memorized the seating chart and the fastest route to the exit in case of wedding-related emergency.
“Harper,” he says, “You made it.”
I look towards my child, who is now gnawing on Alexander’s lapel with a single-minded focus that makes me a little jealous. “Some of us less intact than others,” I say.
He laughs. “You’ll make it to the bar. That’s all that matters.”
Clara is near the entrance, surveying the crowd. She’s in a deep burgundy wrap dress, her hair pinned up in a perfect chignon. She holds a glass of sparkling water and when she sees me, her entire face softens.
“Harper,” she says, and then, softer, “How are you?” I think about lying, but the energy required is more than I can spare.
“Good,” I say, and it’s not a lie. “Actually good.” Clara squeezes my hand, then nods, as if to say that’s all she needs.
I do the circuit. Luca presses a kiss to my cheek, then he moves to Alexander to babble baby noises at Grace, who gives him a look so withering that even Luca, normally impervious, takes a step back.
“She’s got your eyes,” he says. “And your personality, God help us all.”
Liv gives me a once-over and says, “If you drop her in the reception line, I’m not helping.”
“I’d be concerned if I hadn't brought the carrier for Alexander to contain her in.”
“Also,” she says, “congratulations on the book.” She tries to sound bored, but I can hear the pride under it. “Not that it’s hard to sell sex and regret to suburban housewives, but still.”
“You should try it,” I shoot back.
She snorts. “If I ever write about my sex life, it’ll be banned in most stores.”
“Promise?”
Liv laughs and moves off, leaving a vapor trail of dry wit and expensive perfume.
Alexander is a shadow at my side. He shakes hands, remembers names, and even when Grace fusses, he doesn’t so much as flinch.
Instead, he shifts his weight, bounces her gently, and resumes whatever conversation he was having with an uncle or a great-aunt or the head caterer.
When his hand finds the small of my back, I notice, not because it’s performative or dramatic, but because it’s utterly unremarkable.
There’s no performance in it. No need for an audience. It’s just… easy.
For a woman whose entire life has been built around anticipating the next disaster, this is, frankly, disorienting.
I get two minutes of peace before Leo reappears at my elbow.
“Mum, can I go outside?” he asks, already halfway gone.
“Stay where I can see you,” I say, but I know I’m talking to the air.
Clara appears beside me, Grace now slumped in her carrier and emitting a sound somewhere between a snore and a pigeon coo.
“She’s an angel,” Clara says.
I look at my daughter. Her fists are unclenched, her face soft and damp with sleep. She looks nothing like the squalling, furious creature who terrorized me for the first three months of her life.
“She’s only pretending,” I say, and Clara laughs.
“It’s good to see you, Harper. You look…” She pauses, searching for the word.
“Alive?”
She grins. “That’ll do.”
I watch the guests arrive, all of them orbiting around each other with the careful choreography of people who both love and loathe weddings in equal measure. There’s an almost electric energy to the foyer, everyone jostling for position, waiting for the moment the main event begins.
Alexander nudges me gently.
“You ready?” he asks.
I look down again at my sleeping daughter on his chest. At the crowd. At the possibility of the next hour, the next year.
“I think I am,” I say.
He smiles. “Let’s do it, then.”
Weddings are always described as timeless, which is probably why they feel like they last forever.
This one is no different, the main hall is set up like a catalogue spread for people who have opinions about fondant and “statement lighting.” Rows of white chairs face a makeshift altar under a latticework of branches and white roses, with a single aisle running up the centre like a runway.
The afternoon light comes in through arched windows, painting every face in pale gold and dust motes. The air smells like fresh flowers, old wood, and the barely contained anxiety of a hundred guests trying to remember whether they’re supposed to stand or sit.
I am at the end of the aisle, one of three bridesmaids.
Liv is at my right, perfect posture and deadpan face, her lips set in a neutral line that dares anyone to ruin this.
On my left is Luca, officially designated “Man of Honor,” in a deep teal suit with a pocket square that looks hand-embroidered and probably is.
He holds himself together for about four seconds before the music starts and the first notes of Pachelbel’s Canon (yes, really) float out from the sound system.
His bottom lip starts to tremble. He does that manly thing where he blinks very fast and looks at the ceiling. It doesn’t work. By the time Elsie steps into view at the back of the hall, he’s a human faucet, sniffling into a monogrammed handkerchief and trying to be silent about it.
Liv leans over, whispers, “Pull it together.”