Wedding Fever. Kim Gruenenfelder
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with a chair and a whip.”
“First of all, it’s not aquamarine— it’s aqua,” Nic begins with a hint of condescension. “As a matter of fact, if we’re getting technical, I’d say it’s more of an electric blue.”
“Really?” Seema responds dryly. “This is what you want to do right now? Lecture me on your chosen bridal color palette?”
Nic whips open the door to haughtily tell Seema, “Well, you make me sound like some tacky little bride from 1984. And, secondly, it is not a skullcap. That is a lovely— vintage!—forties hat and veil.”
Nicole looks exquisite: the quintessential California girl ready for her wedding at the beach. Her sun-kissed skin glows, her emerald eyes sparkle, and her platinum-blond hair practically shimmers under her long veil. She looks flawless in her gorgeous Monique Lhuillier strapless princess A-line gown in ivory satin. A vision, ready to walk down the aisle. . . .
Until she slams the bathroom door shut again before we have the chance to ram our way in and force her to get married.
I let my head fall into the palm of my hand.
Seema tries the door, but it’s locked again.
“It’s a costume for an extra in an Esther Williams movie,” Seema yells as much as possible while speaking in a stage whisper. “Now get your butt out here!”
There’s a polite knock on the front door. I walk over to it. “Yes?” I ask through the door in the most carefree and breezy tone I can muster.
“It’s Mrs. Wickham,” the lady from the church says on the other side of the door. “People are starting to ask questions. Is everything okay in there?”
I watch Seema stand up, determinedly walk back a few steps, then run like a bull right into the bathroom door.
It doesn’t budge.
“It’s fine,” I lie. “I was . . .”
Seema grabs her shoulder in pain, and starts rubbing it. “Son of a . . .” She pounds on the door with both fists and stage-whispers, “You get out here, woman!”
I open the front door as little as possible, then squeeze through the tiny crack and step out into the hallway. As I do, I take my left hand and push Mrs. Wickham away from the door and farther out into the hallway while simultaneously closing the door behind me with my right hand. “I’ve been vomiting,” I lie. “And crying. Nic was just helping me clean up my mascara.” I grab her by the collar and whine, “Oh God, Mrs. Wickham, why isn’t it me? Why is it never me?”
Suddenly I hear a loud, rhythmic pounding inside the room. I quickly let go of Mrs. Wickham’s collar, open the door a crack, then peek in to see Seema holding a fire extinguisher and ramming it repeatedly into the locked door.
I close the door quickly to block anything unseemly from Mrs. Wickham, and force a toothy smile. “But I’m good now.”
POUND!
I continue to smile, “You go make sure the groom is okay . . .”
POUND!
My cheeks hurt, I’m smiling so hard. “After all, without a groom, we don’t have a wedding.”
POUND!
PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!
“Oh shit!” I hear Seema roar on the other side of the door.
I open the door a crack for a second time to see Seema covered in fire extinguisher goo.
I slam the door shut again, then turn around to the church lady and force myself to admit, “Okay, we might be having a little problem with Seema’s dress. We’re gonna need two more minutes.”
One week earlier. . . .
Chapter One
Seema
Date not bad. She’s pretty cool actually. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Have drinks ready. ; )
Love ya!
I stare at the text on my phone.
My God, men are just glorious in their ability to send mixed signals. I look over at my friends Melissa and Nicole, both scurrying around my kitchen, setting up an assortment of food and drinks for Nic’s bridal shower.
“Okay, this is the last text, I promise,” I say, showing the screen to Nic as she pulls a giant glass pitcher of peach puree from my refrigerator. “What do you think Scott meant when he wrote this?”
Nic takes a moment to read the words on the screen. “That he’s a typical guy who wants you to carry a torch for him but doesn’t actually want to kiss you, make out with you, or take any responsibility for leading you on.”
“I hate it when she minces words,” I joke to Mel, who laughs and nods as she diligently wraps prosciutto slices around melon wedges.
“Okay, I give up,” Nic admits to me in confusion as she holds up the glass pitcher. “What is this?”
“Fresh peach puree,” I tell her, with just a hint of defensiveness. “For the champagne.”
Nic looks horrified. “Since when does perfectly good champagne need to be sullied with sugared fruit?”
“Since every bridal magazine and online article I read told me that proper bridal showers need to have peach Bellinis,” I answer her, with just a hint of “Bring it on, Bitch” in my voice. (I have spent the last week perusing wedding magazines and online wedding sites getting ready for this damn shower. I’ll admit, reading about all of these deliriously happy fiancées has made me a tad sullen.)
“Seriously?” Nic asks. From the scowl on her face, I’m going to guess this is the first she’s heard of it.
“Tragically, yes,” I say. “I also bought orange juice for mimosas. Apparently destroying twenty dollars’ worth of sparkling wine with fifty cents’ worth of sugar during a bridal shower is as traditional as the bride throwing the bouquet, unmarried wedding guests having a fight on the way home about why the guy won’t commit, and a bridesmaid waking up on top of someone horribly inappropriate the next morning.” I hand Mel my phone to read Scott’s text. “What do you think this means?”
Mel clutches her chest. “Oh my God! The poor guy. He liiiikes you. Why don’t you just let him be your boyfriend already?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Is it worth jeopardizing a really good friendship just because I want to have sex with him?”
Mel answers with, “It would be so romantic. The best relationships start out as friendships,” just as Nic talks over her with, “Absolutely. Pin him to a wall and show him who’s boss.”
Mel glares at Nic disapprovingly. Nic shrugs. “What? I didn’t say she had to be the boss.”
They’re both right in their own way, of course. I desperately and achingly want to have sex with Scott. I think about it all the time.
Actually, that’s not true.
What I desperately want is to have that first six-hour make-out session where you just kiss and dry hump on someone’s couch until one of you falls asleep and the other one sneaks off to the bathroom to wash off her makeup, brush her teeth, and prepare to look radiant when you both wake up three hours later. At which time, hopefully he suggests brunch, and you both keep sneaking kisses all day.
But I’m afraid what would happen instead would be the morning that has haunted every girl for months or years after the actual event. When, the next morning, the man that you have finally caught, the man that you have dreamt about kissing for so long, now has that look on his face that men get when they want to find a way to nicely let you know that you were a giant mistake, and that they wish the night had never happened. But it’s not you, it’s him. Really. And can you still be friends? Because he just loves you so much . . . as a friend.
And