But what if I did take him?
It’s not even a real question. I can’t take him, and I won’t, and I shan’t.
Seth and I have a pact, and attending a wedding together would definitely violate its terms.
“Ava, does this look all right to you?” Vera asks, standing off to my left side. “I can still see a few lines that the cape isn’t covering, but I’ll leave it up to you whether we re-hem or not.”
Ava puts the iPad down and stands, swishing her long blond hair over her shoulders. My youngest sister still moves like the cheerleader she used to be, her steps five percent bouncier than average.
“Where?” she asks, standing next to Vera.
“Here,” Vera says, tracing one finger right above the crease of my elbow. “It’s not much, but — Delilah, shrug and relax again.”
I do it, having long ago accepted that my role as bridesmaid is essentially decorative, like a throw pillow.
“It’s barely visible under the lace,” Ava says. “And we’re standing so close, I think from any further away you won’t be able to see it at all.”
I turn my head. The two of them could be twins, born thirty years apart. They have the same willowy figures, the same blonde hair, the same blue eyes and high cheekbones.
I stick my tongue out and cross my eyes at them.
“Hold still, we’re almost done,” Vera says. “If you hadn’t gone and done that to your beautiful skin we’d be done already, you know.”
She doesn’t like my tattoos. It’s not a secret. She didn’t like the bird I got on my hip right after my divorce, she didn’t like it when I got two half-sleeves and an upper back piece, and she certainly didn’t like it when I decided to become a tattoo artist.
Admittedly, I’m successful enough that she’s come around on that last part. I even heard her bragging about her small-business-owning stepdaughter once.
If she knew about my chest piece, currently hidden under a thick layer of coverup, she wouldn’t like that one either.
I put my hands up to my head and make moose antlers, still sticking out my tongue and crossing my eyes.
“Now we can really see them,” Ava deadpans as Vera just sighs.
“I’m gonna stand exactly like this for your entire wedding ceremony,” I say.
“Moooooom,” Ava says, laughing. “Make Delilah be normal.”
“Delilah, don’t pretend to be some sort of… deformed moose monster… on your sister’s wedding day,” Vera says.
“Fine,” I say, and resume a normal stance.
We discuss the clasp on my cape. We discuss what we’re going to do with my hair. The seamstress — whose name is Louise, I think — chimes in with some updates on my derriere.
Then, at last, I’m done.
The rest of the afternoon passes in pleasant chaos, as I put personalized Hershey’s Kisses into the small fancy boxes with the snow globes, call the florist, help with seating charts, and do a hundred other minor pre-wedding tasks.
I wonder, privately, if the days before my own wedding were this chaotic. Were our place cards embossed? Did each of our guests get chocolate with our names on it?
All I really remember is a sense of uncertainty that got worse every day.
I’m putting on my coat and scarf, about to go home, when Vera stops me.
“Delilah,” she says, crossing the high-ceilinged foyer, walking between the two staircases. “You’re sure?”
I free my hair from the scarf and settle it around my neck.
“About Beau?”
“About not taking a date to the wedding,” she says, her voice quieter as she steps up to me, one hand on my shoulder, her touch light through my thick wool coat.
“Yes,” I say, instantly. “I’m really sure.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” she goes on. “I know how awkward it can be to go to something like this alone, when everyone else is paired off, and how lonely it can feel.”
Her hand squeezes my shoulder lightly, and I look into her face, filled with nothing but motherly concern.
Vera’s not wrong. When I was Ava’s age, I didn’t think I’d be single at thirty. I figured that I’d still have a husband and some number of adorable children. I thought we’d be that family who sent an irritating Christmas newsletter every year about how wonderful and great and perfect their lives are.
Clearly, that didn’t happen, but I’ve never been able to convince Vera that I’m happier for it.
“Vera, it’s fine,” I say. “Promise.”
“I worry,” she says, softly.
“I promise the answer isn’t Seth Loveless,” I say, matching her tone.
“Oh, I didn’t mean him specifically,” Vera says. “I just want you to be happy, and if I can help, so much the better.”
“I’m happy alone,” I tell her. “Really.”
“Okay,” she says, and gives my shoulder one more squeeze. “Love you. Drive safe. Watch out for cops at that curve right before you cross the creek, they’ve been hiding in a blind spot lately and I know how you like to speed.”