Page 1 of Finally a Bride: Best Friend's Brother

ONE

Ella

I used love weddings. Yeah, I said “used to.”

My love was rooted in the traditions. The heartfelt speeches, and the train wreck ones, too. Dancing the chicken dance for the hundredth time. The toasting with memories that were personal and special.

And the professing of love. These are just the start the things I loved about weddings.

Loved. Past tense.

When my best friend Mallory said she was going to get married, I was thrilled that this would be the day where I could show her how much I care for her, being there as her Maid of Honor.

Her devoted and adorable hubby is the epitome of a special man. Their families are engaged in their happiness and have that truly amazing bond. Mallory and Cedric are truly M2B— meant to be. But with every passing day, every repetitive moment that happens at every wedding, I’m more and more reluctant to be a part of this life expanding and love cementing event.

And this wedding only shows me how far I am from being a bride.

I've been in twenty-three weddings since the age of seven, starting when I was the flower girl for my aunt’s wedding. That’s when I fell in love with weddings or more likely when I fell in love with love.

But that’s the ironic part.

I've never been in love and although it could still happen, I’m just not sure that I want it now. Maybe I’ve given up on love.

I've never experienced that upheaval of emotion of getting lost in someone else and getting lost in myself and getting lost in us.

And I'm starting to think that I'm becoming cynical about love. Almost bitter and that can’t be good.

“Hey Ella, I need you over here to help with the flowers, pleeeease,” my best friend calls out from across the room.

I rush to her aid like a good maid of honor should do. I can still play the part, even if my heart isn’t in it.

“Don't you just love this ranunculus color?” she asks, waving a peachy-pink flower that flops just a little in her hand. I can't help but tell her the truth. My eyes haven’t been sullied by my attitude yet.

“Mallory, they’re amazing. I love the soft wildflower garden look you’re going for. So magical and,” I bump her shoulder “You were the original wild child, so it fits.”

She leans back on her haunches and closes her eyes, like she’s replaying our pasts in fast forward behind the shuttered lids.

“Oh, God, the trouble I got us into.” She leans into me like we those teenagers under the covers at night. “Do you remember when we drove to Chicago to see that drag queen show and they wouldn’t let us in?”

“Well, we were sixteen.”

“You looked at least twenty and I looked eighteen and a half.”

It brings a chuckle to both of us. The ridiculousness of half of the stuff we did. It’s a wonder we’re still here. And it’s a wonder that our parents never found out. Just knowing Mallory’s… they wouldn’t have been happy.

But she’s right, I’ve always looked older than I am. My height, my curves, my good —normally— behavior, a curse and a blessing. People always gave me the challenging “grown-up” projects thinking that I was “mature.” I usually proved them right, but sometimes, even at twenty-eight, I want to have a little less responsibility and to take a chance to be a little wild.

I miss the days when we tried to get into a drag show now that I can. And those days of just not giving a single fuck were great.

I really want to let go.

Just once more.

Is that too much to ask for?

“Can you make sure these table arrangements get watered tonight before we leave?” she asks while pushing to stand.

I barely hear Mallory, lost in my thoughts, but I nod in confirmation. I pull out my phone and add it to the growing list.

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