“I am not in love,” I shoot back, meeting his gaze. “Relax. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve known Henry long enough to know whether or not he’s an asshole, and he isn’t. I’m just a very low-maintenance girlfriend.”
“I think that sucks,” he states. “You deserve maintenance.”
“I have my own life. It’s more my choice than his.” To stop this conversation, I quickly add, “All right, you look altar-ready to me. I’m gonna run and check on Bethany. Don’t psych yourself out, okay? You got yourself a good one.”
After I’m done clumsily reassuring Alex, I rush back to the bridal suite, hoping at least Bethany will have her head on straight, but she’s frazzled, too. Her sister is pushing champagne on her while Bethany swats it away, saying she can’t have more or she’ll be walking down the aisle buzzed.
“Everything on track in here?” I ask, letting my presence be known.
Bethany spins around to face me, her wild eyes reminding me of a cornered animal. “I never wanted to get married.”
Instead of becoming alarmed, I smile gently. “I know.”
“What if this is a terrible idea? What if it ruins things? What if we end up hating each other?”
“Then you’ll get a divorce,” I say as I approach her. Si
nce she’s Bethany, I’m comfortable enough to say what she needs to hear. “It’s just a party. Don’t overthink it.”
“Bailey’ll get attached.”
I shrug and comment lightly, “Eh, I lived with him for a while and I didn’t. I think she’ll be okay.”
“Very funny,” she says dryly.
“Relax,” I tell her, gently massaging her shoulders. “Everything is going to be fine. You look awesome. This is your party, don’t stress about it, just have fun. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“I do love him,” she says, closing her eyes and visibly relaxing.
A hint of a smile graces my features. “That’s what’s important.”
Even as the words roll off my tongue, I feel like I’m lying to her, but I know that’s my own issue.
“You and Alex are great together,” I add. That part is true.
Bethany takes a deep breath and nods slowly, the wheels obviously turning. “Okay. You’re right. I’m overthinking it.”
I watch her closely as I release her shoulders and take a step back. “You good? You’re not going to run, are you?”
“I’m not going to run,” she assures me.
Checking the time, I see that the ceremony is just minutes from starting. Now that I’ve made sure the bride and groom aren’t both planning to bail, I should probably escort him outside.
I have the funniest series of mental images going through my head. Bethany and Alex come alive in my mind, a scenario I certainly hope wouldn’t actually happen, but I can see how it would play out if it did. Both of them bail on their wedding, leave each other at the altar, but they show up at the same bar afterward. She’s still in her white dress; he’s in a disheveled tux. He’s been driving around aimlessly, wondering if he just made the biggest mistake of his life.
When he walks in, he pauses at the door and looks at her sitting despondently at the bar. First he would watch her, noticing the little things she did earlier to prepare for their big day—like the rosebud pins in her blue hair, commemorating the first flowers he ever brought her. His eyes would catch on the proudly displayed dreamcatcher tattoo on her left shoulder that he’d brushed his lips across just last night. Longing would hit him in the gut. He’d know he screwed up by bailing on her, but he wouldn’t know if she felt the same way. Being him, he wouldn’t just ask.
He would approach her at the bar, drop onto the stool beside her, and ask casually, “Long day?”
At first, she’d be surprised to see him, maybe a little defensive. Most grooms probably wouldn’t be too thrilled to be stood up at the altar, but he would take it in stride. Seeing that, she would be comfortable enough to nod and say, “Yeah. Almost got married.”
“Came to your senses at the last minute, huh?”
“Something like that,” she’d answer.
Then he’d buy her a drink. Take her home. Kiss that dreamcatcher tattoo on her shoulder again, just like he was supposed to that night. Just like he was supposed to every night for the rest of his life.
Something pulls me out of my imaginings, the realization that someone is saying my name—no, not my name. My nickname, the one I don’t respond to anymore because it makes me think of him. Because I can’t hear those two syllables strung together and brought to life by any voice but his.