Chapter 23 Now #3
I shrug. “That’s part of it. I mean, not every wedding I cover is this nice.
But for the ones that are, I think it’s also that I realize now that a hundred grand probably doesn’t mean the same thing to that particular couple—or their families—as it means to us.
If you’ve got that kind of money, why not spend it on a day like this, I guess? One life and all that.”
He nods, considering this.
“Although,” I go on, “I should caveat that I’ve also realized an expensive cost per head doesn’t necessarily equate to a great wedding.
I’ve covered no-frills weddings at chain hotels and in backyards that were incredibly romantic and fun, and much fancier weddings where the father of the bride forgot to mention the groom in his speech.
Or the best man showed up to the ceremony drunk with no clue where the rings were.
Or everyone did their parts respectably but the A/C broke and all anyone talked about was how sweaty they felt.
When it comes to weddings money helps a lot, but it’s not the be-all and end-all. ”
“Fascinating,” he muses. We’re both facing forward, people-watching as the chairs in front of us fill up with smiling guests dressed in their summer best. “What’s your favorite wedding you’ve covered?”
I smile. That’s easy. “Maggie and Rob. May 2022. They were originally supposed to get married in May of 2020, but obviously that didn’t happen.
They canceled and rescheduled five or six times.
I went to lots of micro weddings and even some Zoom weddings during the pandemic, and those were special in their own way.
But this was the first one that felt almost like a pre-2020 wedding.
It poured all morning and then the sun came out just before the ceremony.
It was a beautiful event from start to finish, and everyone just seemed so happy to be there, celebrating something together.
Hugging and dancing without fear. It was the first time in years that I felt truly hopeful.
Like things might finally be getting back to normal. ”
Sebastian turns to me just as I’m glancing over at him, and his mouth curls into a smile. “Well. When you put it like that, the big wedding does sound worth it.”
Despite the smile, there’s a sadness to his eyes that reminds me he was supposed to be getting married at the end of this summer. Suddenly all this wedding talk—and the entire evening—strikes me as pretty insensitive.
A string duo begins playing “Come Away with Me” by Norah Jones, quieting the chatter among the guests and rescuing me from that particular thought spiral for the time being.
The procession begins: first the bridal party, all dressed in navy, followed by a beaming flower girl and a ring bearer who loses his shoe halfway down the aisle.
Then Bonnie and both of her parents appear, and everyone rises.
She’s enviably chic in a sleek bun, glowy makeup and a satin column gown with an oversize bow at her low back.
At the end of the aisle her parents kiss her and take their seats, then she turns to watch Amelia—who is equally stunning in a classic ballgown, lace gloves and a cathedral veil—walk with her dad.
I feel the familiar prick of tears as I watch Bonnie watch Amelia walk down the aisle.
No matter how many weddings I attend, that moment never seems to lose its impact.
I blink back tears and glance at Sebastian to see his reaction.
His brow is furrowed, like he’s lost in a concerning thought.
Is he picturing Claire walking down the aisle with him at the end?
Is he grieving that he won’t have this same moment next month like he was supposed to—regretting it, even?
I think back to the night in my apartment.
The way he kissed me, but then acted like nothing had happened.
It was reckless of me to let my guard down like that.
To think he could have any sort of emotional clarity so soon after a breakup of that magnitude.
I do my best to shake off these thoughts and focus on the wedding that is happening.
My favorite ceremonies have two things in common: personal vows written by the couple and an under thirty-minute run time.
Bonnie and Amelia’s ceremony checks both boxes, so—my own thought spirals aside—the evening is off to an excellent start.
The brides and their party recess back down the aisle, and then I check the monogrammed program I’m holding, which tells me that it’s time for cocktail hour on the terrace.
“I’m ready for a glass of prosecco and something wrapped in puff pastry,” I say as we stand and follow the crowd.
“If there’s a raw bar, you can find me there,” Sebastian says.
“Oh, there will definitely be a raw bar.”
In true Jersey fashion, the cocktail hour is ridiculously over the top.
Stations manned by attendants in white chef coats dot the terrace.
There is, in fact, a raw bar, complete with a heart-shaped ice sculpture in the middle outlined in crab legs.
There’s also a sushi station with freshly prepared rolls and sashimi, a boardwalk-themed counter with waffle fries and sliders and a carving station with a choice of lamb or ribeye.
And all the while additional waitstaff weave among the guests, offering passed hors d’oeuvres: spanakopita egg rolls, ricotta crostini, crab puffs, ahi tuna cucumber bites.
It’s an absurd amount of food, especially when you consider the fact that in an hour there will still be a seated dinner. But hey—I’m not complaining.
I’m about to make a beeline for a guy serving penne vodka out of a giant cheese wheel when Sebastian grasps my forearm. I turn to him.
“We should divide and conquer.” He hooks his thumb toward the bar, where a line is forming. “You grab drinks, I’ll make us plates?”
“Can we do the reverse? I should check out all the food myself. For research, obviously.”
He half smirks. “Obviously. Prosecco?”
“Please. Actually, just get me whatever the signature cocktail is.”
He salutes me and then he’s gone.
Once I’ve piled two plates high with food, chatting with each attendant along the way, I spot Sebastian at a high-top with two copper Moscow mule mugs and join him.
For a few frenzied minutes the extent of our conversation is phrases like “Ohmygod, the bacon-wrapped scallops” and “Wait, did you try this? With the sauce?” I’ve lost track of my nerves from the hotel room, distracted by our shared joy over the food.
Maybe I don’t have to overthink this night.
It can be casual and fun, just like it would have been with David.
“I know you want out of this job,” Sebastian says, skewering a shrimp and then pointing it at me, “but so far I’m seeing a lot of perks.”
“This is the fun part. Watch me write a thousand words on how to control sweat on your wedding day and you may feel differently.”
“To be fair, that sounds useful.”
“Oh, I’m full of useful information. Foolproof tips for freezing wedding cake.
Which vendors you should tip and how much.
” I count off each example on my fingers.
“The difference between American, French, royal and ballroom bustles. Gifting etiquette. Invitation etiquette. Seating etiquette. There’s even etiquette for calling off a wedding.
” I practically clamp my mouth shut when I realized what I’ve just said. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
Suddenly the inside of my Moscow mule is fascinating. I’m afraid to look up, or to respond.
“It’s fine, Lina,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking about that. Really.”
“Okay. But it would be normal if you were, you know.”
“I was supposed to get married and it didn’t work out.” I look up, and he shrugs. The sadness has returned to his eyes, the brightness that had been there a few minutes ago gone. “I can’t avoid weddings for the rest of my life.”
“Sure. But you were supposed to get married next month. I’m just saying if the timing of this night is a little rough, I get it. During the ceremony you looked … distracted.”
Sebastian watches me for a moment. His green eyes have gone a bit stormy. He doesn’t deny it, but before I can probe more a member of the jazz ensemble that has been playing for the last hour announces that the reception will begin shortly in the ballroom.
We follow the crowd into an elegant room with white and gold-flecked marble floors and high ceilings. A full-length, antique-style mirror near the entrance relays the seating chart in loopy calligraphy. I find “Angelina Mariano and Guest” assigned to table 11 and lead us that way.
We choose seats at the long table and greet the guests sitting near us, who are a mix of family friends and distant cousins.
I’m a pretty sociable person, but I always feel a little awkward at weddings I attend for work—so much forced small talk.
Sebastian more than pulls his weight in these conversations, though.
He really is good at the whole plus-one thing.
At one point he even offers to switch seats with me so I can have a better view of the dance floor.
An MC hops on the mic, and the next two hours follow the familiar rhythm of so many weddings I’ve attended.
Entrances. First dances. Speeches (this time, the fathers and mothers all speak, along with a best man and two maids of honor).
Periodically I steal glances at Sebastian, who smiles and chuckles and claps at all the appropriate times.
But the worry lines on his brow remain, as if he has tasted something sour and can’t fully shake it.