Page 94 of Mr. Big Shot

It’s the wedding day. The blissful sounds of birds chirping and bells ringing have been totally drowned out by “Who stole my sticky boob bra? The one I got from Target. I swear to GOD!” and “Hurry up at the makeup chair! You were supposed to be starting hair fifteen minutes ago!”

I’m getting my eye shadow done when Jordy comes around with an open bottle of champagne.

“I thought that was for the mimosas” is the last thing I say before she forces me to down a mouthful of it.

“It’s for whatever we want, ladies. Drink up!”

If Jordy had it her way, we would be teetering our way down the aisle, tipsy and giggly and sloppy but fun.

Conrad has six groomsmen, a respectable number, but it’s nothing compared to Hannah’s roster. Not every one of us will walk down the aisle with a groomsman, but I somehow made the cut. I’m surprised I don’t get paired up with Barrett or Wyatt, but I realize later that Hannah finagled it so that all the single people are grouped together on the off chance she can help sparks fly. It’s sweet of her, but I’ve been paired with Hugh, Conrad’s good friend from undergrad. We’ve met a handful of times over the years and I always thought he was really nice, but he’s not really my type. He’s a nerdy gamer (just like Conrad), which I could totally be into, don’t get me wrong. Someone who enjoys fantasy novels? Sure! I like them well enough, but not on Hugh’s level. And then there’s the anime and board games. Not the generic ones, mind you. He only plays indie board games, created and produced in small batches. When we’re taking pictures, he tugs up his pant leg to reveal his Lord of the Rings socks.

“Killer,” I tell him.

“Right? Like who doesn’t want Gandalf on their ankle?”

“Gollum too,” I say, my eyebrows shooting up. “I mean, the likeness is eerie.”

He chuckles and adjusts his bowtie. It’s black, though he wishes Conrad had gone with the R2-D2 pattern Hugh found on a Star Wars website. My mom would have had an aneurysm.

“Later, a few of us have these Chewbacca outfits we rented. We’re going to run out in them during the reception.”

“Oh god.” I laugh. “Conrad is going to love that.”

“Could everyone look here please?” the photographer asks, putting the kibosh on our conversation.

We smile and pose, and afterward, Hugh sort of lingers near me as if hoping to get a conversation going again. Then Gabriella walks over and notices Hugh’s socks and freaks out—“Oh my god! Those are amazing!”—and I promptly slink away to give them the chance to get to know each other better. I don’t see Hugh again until it’s ceremony time.

Hannah’s family and my parents have spared no expense for this wedding. We’ve basically taken over the Langham. The ceremony is outside on the terrace overlooking the Chicago River, a ballsy move considering how cold it can be in early March, but that’s nothing money can’t fix. Cashmere throws have been draped across the back of every chair, not that they’ll be needed thanks to the space heaters end-capping every row. If anything, guests will be sweating.

Later, the reception will take place inside the largest of the Langham’s ballrooms. I poked my head in earlier to see how it was coming along. My mother was standing in the center of the room in a cute coordinating sweatsuit with her hair pinned up in rollers, ordering people around, polite but panicky.

Her attention to detail has no doubt paid off. I can’t wait to see it.

“Okay, you know what you’re doing here?” Hugh asks me, nodding toward the aisle.

We’re standing with the rest of the bridal party and groomsmen just inside the hallway off the terrace, awaiting our cue to get this show on the road. Hannah’s at the back, taking a few photos alongside her father. It makes me wistful looking at them. I can’t imagine what it will be like when I walk with my dad down the aisle. Oh, he’s definitely going to cry. I’m going to cry. It’ll be a mess.

“It’s easy. Just like we rehearsed,” I assure Hugh. “We just follow the people in front of us.”

The aisle is made from a white silk runner that’s been hand-embroidered with Hannah and Conrad’s signature wedding monogram. A thick white floral arch sits at the end where Conrad stands, handsomely waiting for his bride.

“Not too fast though,” Hugh confirms.

“Right. We have to be cool about it. Pace ourselves.”

“Okay, you do the leading. I’m a great follower.”

I chuckle. “Noted.”

There are close to 300 people in attendance—small by my mother’s standards—but Conrad and Hannah were insistent that they didn’t want it to get too out of hand. The terrace is packed to the gills as the pianist begins to play.

Guests shift in their chairs, turning back to look at us. Thankfully, Hugh and I are toward the end. I get the benefit of watching most of the bridesmaids walk in front of me as I hang back at the edge of the doorway, mostly out of sight. I scan the sea of chairs, searching like I’m on a Where’s Waldo? assignment.

Hudson’s surprisingly easy to spot in the crowd. He’s tall, which helps. Also, most of the Elwood Hoyt employees have banded together in the back rows. Lucy sits on the aisle seat wearing a cheery yellow dress that I instantly love. Hudson sits to her right, his head slightly bowed.

Lucy sees me and waves. I smile and give her a little wave back. She turns, murmurs something to Hudson.

He lifts his head and shifts in his chair to look over his shoulder. His brown eyes meet mine. My stomach flips. The easy joy I felt seeing Lucy is inflamed and turned to ash, replaced with heart-racing, nausea-inducing nerves. Seeing him makes it so every other man feels inconsequential, boring, lackluster. Hugh says something and I smile because it feels like I should smile, but I’m not listening. I’m looking at Hudson.

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