“Are we ready to release the groomsmen?” she asks. “Let me know when it’s time to give the signal for the signal.”
All eyes turn to Thad, and for a quick second, he looks terrified.
Then he remembers to smile and overcompensates by smiling too much and giving the crowd a big double thumbs-up.
“Ready and willing!” he says, and there’s polite laughter.
No one asks Ava, because she’s in the bridal suite. She doesn’t want Thad to see her until she’s walking down the aisle, and even though I’ve told myself over and over again that she wants it that way for tradition’s sake, I can’t shake the quiet suspicion that it’s also so she can’t back out.
I look down at my bouquet of dusky pink roses and white lilies, at my bare fingers, and ignore my unease.
Thad isn’t Nolan. Ava isn’t me. My worries have nothing to do with them and everything to do with me.
The beginning strains of Canon in D float through the doors. I hold my breath, steeling myself for my least favorite part of every wedding.
The doors swing open.
Fuck me sideways, that’s a lot of people and they’re all looking in my direction.
I take the arm of Thad’s older brother Chad, my companion. I stand up straight. I hold my bouquet properly at about boob height, as instructed, and when it’s our turn, I fuckin’ promenade.
Nothing exciting happens. Thank God.
I smile nicely, don’t trip, find my spot in the front, and I’m done. That’s my entire job. This is almost certainly the last time I’ll be walking down an aisle at a wedding of this magnitude, and I’m not even a little bit sad about it.
After that, it’s a wedding. It’s lovely and meaningful and heartfelt, but I also admit that I spend much of the ceremony studying the ceiling, wondering if the decorations are original to the manor or re-created.
They exchange vows and rings. Thad kisses the bride, and everyone cheers, including me. We all walk back down the aisle and just as I’m thinking about how glad I am that I’ll never have to do this again, I swear to God I see Seth.
Or, at least, I see a brief glance of a quarter of his head. Really, it’s just some dark hair at approximately the right height, but the part of my brain that’s always on the lookout starts shouting and poking me, but he’s already disappeared behind the crowd.
I snap my head forward and complete my journey.
Not Seth, I tell myself. Other people have hair, and also, someone would have told you if he were coming.
Right? Right.
Before I can get any further down that particular mental path, a pink streak clomps up to me.
“Delilah!” Bree gasps, and I bend down to her height. “I saved you these!”
She throws a fistful of rose petals into my face and laughs.“I need the bridesmaid on the end to step in a little,” the photographer calls, waving her hand in the universal scootch motion.
Behind her, I can see the wedding guests through the big arched windows, mingling and drinking and eating finger foods. They look warm.
Did they end up getting the mini crabcakes? I wonder, watching a woman in a long blue dress take something from a tray. Those were good but I know Ava was worried about —
“Delilah,” Vera says from her place next to the photographer, and I jolt to attention.
Right. I’m the bridesmaid on the end.
I scootch, careful not to put a foot wrong on the cobblestones, and Chad scootches with me. We resume our delicate-hold-from-behind-without-really-touching prom-esque pose. The camera clicks.
“Smile!” Vera calls, and I resist the urge to shout I’m already smiling, dammit.
More pictures. More adjusting. I’m freezing my tits off out here despite my faux-fur capelet, and I silently hope that one of the waiters with a tray of champagne will take mercy on us and swing by the photoshoot. I only managed to grab one glass before being herded outside, and it was not enough.
I elbow Chad by accident during another adjustment and apologize; he’s very gracious about it. I smile and glance through the windows again, because that definitely wasn’t Seth, right? I’m just being a little crazy, right?
“Delilah,” Vera says. It’s clearly not the first time she’s said my name.
“Sorry,” I say, and glance around to find the groomsmen gone.
“Bridesmaid picture!” Ava chirps. “Oh, I want to do one of those ones where everyone is jumping in the air!”
Please, God, no. I’m wearing heels and a strapless bra. This is not a jumping outfit.
“Let me get the formal one first,” the photographer says. “Good, good --"
“Those jumping photos never turn out,” I say, still smiling.
“I’ve seen them,” Ava says.
“Those are models,” I point out, adjusting my bouquet slightly. “They’re jumping photo professionals. It never works with regular people.”
“Now look at the bride,” the photographer instructs.