When I was growing up, my dreams were pragmatic—make friends, be awesome, and kick unholy ass.
I blame my dad.
He instilled in me a belief that I could do anything I set out to if I used my brain and heart.
Getting married was never on my vision board.
But today I am that person.
It’s my wedding day, and I just can’t wait to say I do. Hell, I’ve been floating on air since Silvio proposed four months ago, after two mere months of dating.
“Fair warning. You three are going to have to stop me from running across the lawn and into Silvio’s arms,” I say to my crew as we get ready, my hairstylist working on my updo.
“Ah, so you’re going to be one of those brides,” Emerson quips as she fishes in her makeup bag in the suite at the Legion of Honor, where I’ll be doing the aforementioned forty-yard dash into my tall, dark, and handsome groom’s arms.
I smile, owning it. “Yup. It’s going to be so cheesy, but so romantic, and none of you will be able to stop me. In fact, you’ll all melt into puddles of swoon,” I say.
Ever so briefly, a memory rushes over me.
A pint of Swoon.
But I push away the imaginary ice cream flavor. It’s bad form to think of past men on your wedding day, even for a second. And why would I when my main man might as well have stepped straight out of Central Casting and into the role of my Romeo?
My heart flutters.
I’m getting married.
The girl who never fantasized about dresses or I dos is ready to skip to her guy in about an hour.
Hold me back, world.
As my stylist clips the sides of my hair into a silver barrette, I can’t stop smiling stupidly at my reflection in the mirror. Karissa surveys my peeps—Jillian is perched on the couch; my sister, Olive, sits on the desk; and Emerson stands next to her, still sorting through a makeup bag. Skyler ran out to refill a water bottle but she should be back soon.
“Say the word, and I’ll arm wrestle Katie till she stops waxing on about her groom,” Karissa says to my friends.
Jillian taps her chin, deep in thought. “I’m tempted simply because of the arm-wrestling match.”
I pinch Karissa’s toned biceps. “She’d win. She’s got Gal Gadot arms.”
“I moonlight as Wonder Woman,” Karissa says as she runs a flat iron over one of my blonde curls. My hair has darkened a bit over the years. It was bright blonde when I was younger, golden in my twenties, and now it’s heading into a dark blonde palette. Seems fitting—I still feel perky and bold, but stronger, surer of myself, and maybe a touch more vulnerable too. Time has done its thing. So, letting my natural color shine through fits who I’ve become in my mid-thirties and who I want to keep being—the best me possible.
“But seriously, I am so happy for you I could cry rainbows,” Karissa says as she squeezes my shoulder. “You’re going to be the most gorgeous bride in all of San Francisco. I swear, Silvio won’t know what hit him.”
“I don’t know what hit me.” I lean back in the chair, catching Emerson’s knowing look as our eyes meet in the mirror.
“What hit you is a smoking-hot Italian artist who’s a real-life Romeo,” my good friend says. Her smile tells me she’s thrilled for me. She has been since he swept me off my feet the night I met him—New Year’s Eve.
Jillian straightens her shoulders, tucking strands of silky black hair over her ear. “And who treats you like the goddess you are.”
“And who’s almost too good to be true,” Olive chimes in as she ties a bow around a bouquet of sunflowers. She holds it up for praise. “What do you think? Maybe if the whole numbers thing doesn’t work out, I could become a florist.”
“Hey! Don’t panic the bride on her wedding day,” I say, only part joking. “I need my numbers wunderkind.”
“I would never abandon Sassy Yoga,” she replies and ties the twine in a bow just so. She can’t help herself. She has a penchant for crafts. “But if I was to start a floristry side hustle, I would never sell sunflowers. They kind of stink.”
“Mom begged me to have them,” I say with a shrug. “She said they’d be perfect, and pretty much got down on her hands and knees. It was easier to let her have her way than to argue. I’m not a big flower person, anyway.”
“You’re a tiger lily,” Emerson announces. “That’s what you should have.”
“Thanks. I’ll have tiger lilies at my next wedding,” I deadpan.
Emerson crosses the suite, stops in front of Jillian, then swipes the brush down my college bestie’s nose. Emerson taught herself classy wedding makeup through YouTube tutorials. No surprise—she loves YouTube.