Page 86 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
Actually ... maybe it would help someone reading this story. Okay, not a boundary after all.
I sigh and sit back down, careful not to muss my skirt. “Yes, I started therapy. I found a great therapist in Crescent City. I also have a psychiatrist, and I’ve been diagnosed with complex PTSD, anxiety, and depression. No big surprises there, I suppose. I’m on meds now, and my go-to metaphor for describing the difference is a light-filtering window shade—the ones that you can kind of see through—going up. Everything in my life is clearer and brighter.”
Emma takes down her notes, and, because it’s occurring to me that this is an important point, I add, “The depression was the only part of my diagnosis that surprised me. I figured depression looked like lethargy, inertia, suicidal thoughts. Those words have never described me. I’m very active, and I’ve never considered suicide. But apparently depression can look a lot of different ways. For me, self-blame and guilt, and a tendency to see the worst case first and get stuck there were probably my main symptoms.”
A knock at the door stops the interview. The door swings open, and Erin peeks in. “Sorry to interrupt, but ... check the time, Len.”
I reach for my phone, but it’s not on me. My dress has pockets (!!!) but, alas, I have yet to put anything in them.
“It’s 2:23,” Emma says.
“Oh! Wow. Yeah, we have to stop!” Less than forty minutes to go, and I am not ready.
Packing up her bag, Emma stands. “Of course. I’ll meet up with Jeff and get some background shots. Then we’ll do a few shots of the ceremony, like we talked about. Do you mind if we also stay for the reception and talk to some people?”
Erin rolls her eyes, but I smile at Emma. “No, you’re welcome to stay, and talk to people, and enjoy yourself, too. Just please don’t be intrusive.”
“We won’t be. Thank you, Leo. It’s been really great talking to you.”
We shake hands, and Erin makes room so Emma can go through the door.
“Oh my GOD,” Erin says as she closes the door. We’re in Cottage 4, because it has the best view of the gazebo and because Serafina lives in the main cabin. Wyatt and I never left Roman’s house, which is now simply home.
Erin looks utterly gorgeous, wearing a sage green chiffon dress, knee-length, with a halter top. She’s been letting her hair grow, and now she’s got it up in a simple French twist. She’s also wearing makeup—subtle, but a full face. She looks like Audrey Hepburn. To be clear: Erin normally dresses like it’s 1993 and she’s following Soundgarden around on tour. I’m pretty sure this dress is the only one in her closet.
I mean, we were in second grade in 1993, but the point stands. My friend is beautiful in faded flannel or flowing chiffon,but I have never seen her look so elegant and poised as she does now.
“You are gorgeous, Erin,” I say.
“Not as gorgeous as you,” she parries and turns me so I face the fully-length cheval mirror. “I mean, look at you!”
I look. We found our dresses together, in a tiny bridal boutique in Eureka. Mine is chiffon as well—it’s August, after all—and strapless, with a gathered sweetheart bodice. Strapless is a little too exposed for me, but I fell instantly in love with the dress, so I’ve got a pearl-beaded bolero jacket to wear over it. In my hair, I’ll wear a circlet of pearls.
There is a vast difference between planning a wedding at twenty and planning a wedding at thirty-eight. At twenty, the things a bride thinks she wants are mainly dictated by what media say she should want. At thirty-eight, a bride understands her own tastes and plans her wedding accordingly.
The ring Roman gave me three days after he proposed twinkles on my finger. A vintage square emerald on a band chased with diamond leaves. Emerald is not my birthstone; it’s his. I don’t know if that’s a common choice, but I think it’s about the most romantic thing ever. He could not have chosen better, and he got no prior input from me.
“This is going to be the best wedding, and we are the best-looking wedding party in Bluster right now,” I say and turn to hug Erin. We’re the only wedding party in Bluster right now.
She holds me off. “There will be no hugging until after the ceremony. Hugging makes wrinkles.”
I laugh. “I’m not sure I can handle this bizarro world where you care about clothes.”
“Well, I look fucking hot today.”
“You do.”
“And once we get your face on, you will look like a Disney princess.” She starts to fuss with my skirt. You’ve been sitting—we need the steamer.”
“Seriously. You know about steamers? I need a G-suit or something before I pass out.”
She elbows me in the ribs with ... let’s call it ardent affection. “You are not half as hilarious as you think you are, smartass.”
The door swings open—no knock first—and Jessie vaults into the room. She’s wearing green knee-length chiffon as well, but hers is a darker, forest green because, with her bright ginger mane, sage washed her out. Her dress has a plunging neckline and short, sheer capelet sleeves. She’s left her hair loose and wild, but she did get a hot conditioning treatment on our spa day yesterday, so her bright waves gleam.
“I’ve got the makeup!” she crows as she hips the door closed.
“We need a steamer, too,” Erin says. “Do we have a steamer?”
