Page 9 of The Romance Fiasco

“I meant the love uniting the bride and groom. Yep. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it,” I say to no one in particular while I wait in line for a last-minute item Romy requested. She saw a social media post about a life hack that involved lining her shoes with maxi pads to keep her feet from sweating.

Gazing up at the foam-paneled ceiling and glaring fluorescent lights, I say, “I just don’t know. I don’t know anymore.” Yet here I am, in line at the pharmacy talking to myself.

With only thirty minutes until the rehearsal dinner starts, I only went along with this because I was in desperate need of deodorant. I’m not smelly. More like nervous. I think I took on Romy’s anxiety. Not that she’d ever admit she had it.

Some girls in our dorm referred to her as an airhead. That’s not entirely fair. It’s more accurate to say that she thinks she’s the star of her own TV talk show. I mean, she’s chatty. That’s all. Also, she thinks the world revolves around her, which I suppose I’m reinforcing by standing in this unusually long line with lady pads for her shoes on a Friday night at a drug store.

In fact, I’ve never seen Romy so scattered yet singularly focused as she was earlier. I guess that’s what happens on the eve of your wedding day.

“But why should I be anxious?”

An elderly man standing in the next line over looks at me as if questioning whether he should be concerned for my wellbeing.

I give a little wave before realizing it’s with the hand containing the feminine care products. Swallowing, I say, “Wedding later. Er, tomorrow. Not mine.”

His expression falters. Maybe because I’m wearing a skimpy dress with a twirly skirt that Romy insisted was perfect, along with strappy high-heeled sandals that make me feel like a giant.

“Sheesh. What has gotten into me?” I mutter.

Then I slap my hand over my mouth. When the officiant asks if anyone objects, what if I involuntarily get out of my seat and holler,I do? No, notI do. To be clear, I do not want to marry Ross. What if I say that I object to their union?

On what grounds? That the guy is a lying cheater and I wouldn’t want that for my friend. Then again, she cheated too. Not that we were dating. Nothing of the sort. She betrayed our friendship.

Yeah, I think I need to work on that forgiveness thing.

After checking out, I push the door open at the same time someone on the other side gives it a shove. We push and pull like we’re doing an even more awkward dance than “passing in the hall choreography.”

At last, he pulls the door open for me and mutters something about shaving cream as I murmur, “Thanks,” without making eye contact—no need to pile on the embarrassment.

“Get it together, Lally,” I tell myself as I rush to my car. Thankfully, there aren’t any new texts from Romy. Only the one from MM seems to glow on my device.

Me: Did you mean to send that last one?

I considered replying, but I’ve already dug halfway to the six-foot mark, why keep digging my own grave?

After swiping on more deodorant, checking my teeth, and smoothing my hair, I head over to the rehearsal dinner venue. Romy’s parents own mansions in Hawaii, Montana, and the Hamptons, but they rented out an estate for this evening’s event. Or I should say Romy did, and they paid for it. Actually, I’m not sure which contingent of her parent units footed the bill—her mother has remarried several times and her father’s wife seems to get younger and younger. Is it the same one or is he replacing her with a new unit every few years?

These are the thoughts that distract me from the racing sensation vibrating under my skin as the sun begins its slow descent with a golden wink from the west.

A valet insists on parking my SUV. “I’m sorry about the dog fur. Occupational hazard,” I say softly as he cruises away.

Laughter filters from inside the mansion. Swaths of neon LEDs light the exterior and glow from the interior. The strains of music greet me at the same time a man in a black suit ushers me inside.

Biting my lip, I say, “Just looking for the bride.”

And looking and looking. I imagined the rehearsal dinner to be a small, intimate affair with the bride and groom’s respective families along with the bridal party and best men.

Nope. This is what Romy would’ve called, back in college, a rager. Well, a respectable, sophisticated rager.

So far, I’ve counted three bars, two groups doing shots, and one woman whose clothing isn’t sufficient even on this balmy Atlanta evening.

But no sign of Romy.

I spot her mother, some relatives I met over the years, and even Ross, but no bride.

Biting my lip, I pull out my phone and send her a text...and wincing when I spot the one from MM. It’s as if after my brash reaction to Ross’s cheating, I’ve opened myself up to a multitude of embarrassments. I’m not usually like this—flustered, talking to myself, or so fidgety.

Three minutes pass during which I eat three canapes—whatever those are—and pass up two cocktails. I long for a dog or even a pet bird to help ground me. I don’t have social anxiety, so that’s not it. But as I’ve gotten older, I prefer the companionship of animals to people.

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