Glad You Came

Chapter One

One

The fight-or-flight response has always been a fascination of mine.

Partly because, whether through necessity or personality, I’ve always been quick to fight.

I’m a fighter. Well, ok, not in the literal sense (although I once punched a dear friend in the face because he paid me to after one too many tequilas, and I broke a finger).

But I am confrontational. I bite back when barked at. It’s who I am.

So naturally, I don’t like this queasy feeling, or the jittery shakes in my fingers. And I’m definitely not enjoying the whirling, anxious thoughts morphing into a full-blown headache.

And worse still, none of it is firing me up for a fight.

No, it’s telling me to run. And that would be fine.

Totally fine.

It’s just a shame it’s my wedding day.

I stare at my reflection as a rainbow-coloured dildo passes over my shoulder, mid-flight.

The hair stylist flinches as she adds the final bobby pins into my tight bun.

Behind me, my younger sisters – Abby, Gemma and Millie – are pure frenetic energy.

With their blonde hair styled, makeup pristine, their lovely, dusky pink dresses zipped up, and their heels strapped on, the three of them have grown impatient.

“Watch out!” Abby says, ducking to avoid the dildo as it ricochets off the wall. Millie, my youngest sister, the culprit, picks it up and wags it in the air. “Really?” I sigh. “Can you not destroy this hotel room, please?”

She spins on me with an eye roll. “It’s hardly going to break anything. It’s rubber.”

“There’s no way that’s rubber,” Abby interjects, shaking her head. Ever the nerd of the family. “If anything, it’s soft plastic.”

Millie scoffs. “Who the hell made you the expert of dildos?”

“I’m just stating facts.”

“Dildo facts.” Millie grins, the accomplished antagonist that she is.

“Will you both shut up.” Gemma steps in, but as always, it’s only to press her own agenda. She tilts her head and forces a smile. “Sara, Brad wants to see me before the ceremony. You don’t mind, right?”

I let out a slow breath, but it’s ragged. Panic tightens my chest. And of course, the extra-large dildo whizzes past my head again. I stifle a scream.

Must remember to pick my battles.

Besides, beyond my gut-wrenching anxiety about today and the tension gathering at the base of my skull, I promised myself I wouldn’t morph into bridezilla. I’ve taken extra precautions to avoid this likelihood, such as, pretending I’m not that fussed about anything to do with the wedding.

Wrong flowers arrived? Oh well.

Guest no-shows? Who cares.

Rain forecast? That’s just as well.

Signs everywhere? Who believes in signs?!

I even hired a wedding planner for this specific reason, and yet wrangling my baby sisters is proving an even bigger job than planning a wedding.

I shoot Gemma a look, who shrugs apologetically but turns her attention back to her phone.

I know if I ask her to ignore her toxic, too-old-for-her boyfriend until after the ceremony, the curtains will come down on that one and I’ll be labelled the worst bridezilla to have ever bridezillered.

I can feel myself really starting to spiral when a soft hand squeezes my arm. Hattie, one of my best friends since university and my maid of honour, gives me a reassuring smile before quickly inserting herself.

“Can I see that dildo?” she asks Millie politely, who frowns, reluctantly passing it over for inspection.

Hattie scrunches her nose at it, steps up to the open window and flings it out. Whatever it is made of, it certainly lands with a dramatic thwack. I can only hope it hasn’t hit any guests on its descent.

“Hey!” Millie complains. “That was Sara’s wedding gift from me.”

“That’s so weird,” Hattie says, shaking her head. “And Gemma, pass me your phone please.”

Gemma eyes me suspiciously as if Hattie and I have some form of telepathy. She regards the window before handing it over. In fairness, I understand her wariness, Hattie has been known to act on impulse – she’s as fizzy as her wild, strawberry-blonde hair.

The stylist tuts at my constant movement, and I quietly apologise.

A bead of sweat drips down my back but I’m conscious of not moving again. Instead, I take a deep breath, attempting to push away the sick feeling climbing my throat.

“Deep breaths,” Hattie says to me, holding Gemma’s phone up to her mouth to record a voice note.

“Hi, Brad. Gemma is really busy supporting her older sister on a really big day and so I’m hoping you’ll be able to entertain yourself for a moment.

Thanks so much, Brad. You’re a hero.” Her tone drips with sarcasm and I smile – actually smile – for the first time today.

“Great, now, where were we?” Hattie asks. Gemma lifts her chin, clearly irritated her phone has been confiscated. She sidesteps Hattie to stand behind me as I’m misted with hairspray without warning.

“All done,” the stylist says. “Are you happy with the curls I’ve done at the front? They’ll likely fall out before the reception, but you have such naturally straight hair.”

“It’s lovely,” I say, brushing the strands from my face. The curls feel so intensely trivial right now.

“I think it looked better down,” Millie adds, lying back on the bed. Hattie turns and shoots Millie a look. “Never mind. The curls are cute. They definitely don’t make you look more uptight than usual.”

Ah, there it is. The stinger.

I exhale slowly. The thing about being the eldest of four is that you end up taking on responsibilities before you’re old enough to do so.

I believed I was far more mature and knowledgeable than I actually was.

I know I got lots of it wrong: I pushed too hard when their grades were down; spoke out about shitty boyfriends before they were ready to hear it; and I had, still have, a serious inability to ignore behaviour that needs calling out.

But I am also the one they call when things get tough – partly because we lost our mother when I was only fourteen and someone had to fill her shoes.

I’ve bailed Gemma out of credit card debt three times. She dates wealthy, older men, but somehow, always ends up paying for everything.

I’ve picked Millie up from the side of the road, since she was old enough to go out drinking with her mates, more times than I’m willing to admit.

As for Abby… Well, she’s the quietest, brainiest one of the bunch.

I never had to worry about her grades – she aced every exam – but I would have to worry about whether she’d remembered to eat during revision periods or if she was allowing herself enough rest. She struggled with friendships in a way none of us ever did and, although everything seemed fine on the outside, I’d lie awake at night worrying about her the most.

And so, I’m sorry, I guess, if I come across a little uptight at times.

But if I was relaxed, nothing would get done and the girls wouldn’t have anyone to lean on when things get tough.

And that’s why I cannot possibly run. Not in front of my sisters. Not in front of family. Not today. I’ve left it too late. Just the thought of letting them down makes me want to throw up.

Ugh!

Hattie clears her throat, bringing me back to earth. “Come on bride-to-be, let’s get you into your dress.” She signals to Millie. “And turn the radio up please. I fucking love this song.”

The song playing is a familiar chart topper, the kind with a quieter bridge that leads into a big, sweeping chorus.

It’s that style of song that makes you want to jump around the room, even if you don’t know the lyrics.

I can never remember the name of the band, but I’ll give it to them, they know how to write a hit.

I follow Hattie into the swanky bathroom, Abby trailing behind me. I’m primed for marriage: every inch of me has been waxed and tanned over the past few days. Add in my blonde hair and angular features, I feel almost Barbie-like. But not in a good way.

The dress I chose is a ball gown shape with the sweetheart neckline and lace sleeves. The lady who worked in the shop looked me up and down once, picked it right off the hanger and told me it was the one. And although I tried other dresses, she was right, this was the best shape on me.

Now, of course, I hate it. I wish I’d picked something more daring. More me.

I’m not a princess. And I feel like an imposter in it.

But that’s starting to feel like a theme these past weeks.

Even months. In some ways I’ve felt like an imposter in my own life, and it’s terrifying.

But it’s not worth dwelling on right this second.

I’ve already decided I’m going through with this wedding.

We’ve been together for five years, it’s time.

It makes sense. Even if my heart is sagging in my chest.

I shake myself out of it. Everyone is here for a wedding. Some of my family have travelled hours to get here. And I am programmed not to let people down.

I’m going to be the perfect bride.

I am strong enough for this.

Hattie eyes me as I remove my satin dressing gown. I think she can tell something is on my mind but isn’t saying anything. At least not in front of Abby. They team up to lower the dress so I can step in, raising it again as I slide my arms into the sleeves.

“Right. Let’s do this,” I say, forcing a smile and nodding to Hattie.

Abby moves the mirror, so I have no choice but to look at myself. “You’re so pretty,” she says, and I can tell by the gentleness of her voice that she really believes it.

“You’re even prettier,” I remind her, turning the attention away from me.

“Mike is one lucky man,” Hattie agrees, coming over to adjust my bodice slightly and apply some skin tape to the front exactly the way the seamstress showed her in the shop at my final fitting only two weeks ago.

It feels like so much has happened since then.

So much has shifted. “I bet he’s nervous too. ”

I bet he is, I think.

“I’m not nervous.” I am very nervous.