Chapter 5
“You weren’t kidding when you said it was a lie,” I mouth into the top of Daphne’s stiff hair. There’s so much hairspray in it that I’m worried she might light on fire. I don’t mention the danger to her because she came out of the church looking miserable. Maybe she’s hungry? I know I am. “How many pictures is the man going to take?”
“I don’t know. Do you have your phone? I left mine inside.”
“Yeah, just a minute.”
I delve into my suit coat to pull out my phone when the photographer barks out, “Sir, if you would lower your arm, please.”
The wedding party turns to look at me and I feel as guilty as one of the perps I haul into the station. Slightly abashed, I let go of my phone and drop my arm to my side. The photographer gives me a terse nod and orders everyone to look at his snapping fingers.
“Could this day get any worse?” Wendy’s cries fill the air. “The ceremony was supposed to start a half hour ago.” She turns a dark face to the groom. “I told you not to pick that asshole as a groomsman. He’s unreliable, can’t hold his liquor, and he would have ruined the pictures because he’s short and fat! Look at this mess.” She thrusts her bouquet in my direction.
The guy who was supposed to walk down the aisle with Daphne never showed up and so they pushed me into his tux, which is simultaneously too small because he was about four inches shorter than me and too big because he outweighed me by about forty pounds. I’m lowkey worried that if the groom passes out, they’re going to make me marry Wendy.
“It’ll be fine,” soothes the groom.
“No, it won’t.” The bride stomps her foot. “These pictures are going to be ruined.”
“Why don’t we have the one on the end step aside?” suggests the photographer.
Every head turns toward Daphne. I wait for someone—like Daphne’s mother or Wendy—to mention that Daphne is part of the family. No one says a word. Daphne begins to fidget with her small collection of flowers. It looks as if they’re actually considering this, which is complete bullshit.
“This is the bride’s sister,” I boom out.
The photographer eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, okay. Then, how about someone else?”
Wendy rouses then. “No. It’ll be uneven. I choose a wedding party of six so the pictures would look balanced. You’ll just have to fix him”—she points toward me—”in the final processing.”
“Let’s start with the wedding party then. Snuggle up close and turn toward the camera,” the photographer commands.
“You shouldn’t have said anything. We could’ve been in the truck, drinking vodka,” Daphne informs me as she gets into position.
“Since when do you start carrying around booze?” I step behind her.
“I don’t, but there’s a gas station only two blocks away and you definitely deserve a bottle or five for putting up with my sister.”
“This won’t last long. It’ll be fine.” Thirty minutes and what feels like five thousand photos later, I’m regretting my words.
“This is the downside of digital photography. There’s no limit anymore,” Daphne mutters out of the side of her mouth as we pose once again for the camera.
“I could crush his camera,” I offer. We’ve done everything that could possibly be done including jumping in the air, holding the bride above our heads, pretending we are teeing off at a golf course.
“Just crush my skull between your hands. Then I won’t hear the screeching outrage of my family.”
I clench my jaw to keep the laughter from spilling out.
“You there in the ill-fitting suit,” the photographer calls out. “You need to stand closer to the bridesmaid. We don’t want to see too much of your suit.”
I take a small step forward and try to shuffle my big feet underneath the bottom of Daphne’s puke yellow dress. I don’t want to touch her. I don’t really trust myself. I almost took her to the asphalt earlier before her mom came out and saved me. At least all the acrobatic wedding shots meant I had some distance between me and temptation.
“A little closer,” the photographer urges. “And put your hands on her waist.”
Daphne stiffens. I rub a hand across my jaw.
“Daphne, did you forget to shower this morning?” calls out her sister. The rest of the wedding party screeches with laughter.
I slap my hand around Daphne’s waist and jerk her flush against me. She lets out a small yelp of surprise.
“Sorry.”
“It’s no big deal,” she replies, and I don’t know if she means that her sister’s cruel comments don’t matter or that she doesn’t care that I’m pressed from chest to hip against her back and ass.
“All right. Let’s get these pictures taken and your wedding started,” directs the photographer.
The bridal party falls into line and the camera guy gets to work, telling us to stand taller, straighter, smile harder. Thank fuck the commands are simple because I wouldn’t be able to follow otherwise. My mind’s swimming.