“What hit you is a smoking-hot Italian artist who’s a real-life Romeo,” my good friend says. Her smile tells me she’s thrilled for me. She has been since he swept me off my feet the night I met him—New Year’s Eve.
Jillian straightens her shoulders, tucking strands of silky black hair over her ear. “And who treats you like the goddess you are.”
“And who’s almost too good to be true,” Olive chimes in as she ties a bow around a bouquet of sunflowers. She holds it up for praise. “What do you think? Maybe if the whole numbers thing doesn’t work out, I could become a florist.”
“Hey! Don’t panic the bride on her wedding day,” I say, only part joking. “I need my numbers wunderkind.”
“I would never abandon Sassy Yoga,” she replies and ties the twine in a bow just so. She can’t help herself. She has a penchant for crafts. “But if I was to start a floristry side hustle, I would never sell sunflowers. They kind of stink.”
“Mom begged me to have them,” I say with a shrug. “She said they’d be perfect, and pretty much got down on her hands and knees. It was easier to let her have her way than to argue. I’m not a big flower person, anyway.”
“You’re a tiger lily,” Emerson announces. “That’s what you should have.”
“Thanks. I’ll have tiger lilies at my next wedding,” I deadpan.
Emerson crosses the suite, stops in front of Jillian, then swipes the brush down my college bestie’s nose. Emerson taught herself classy wedding makeup through YouTube tutorials. No surprise—she loves YouTube.
And I love my friends.
This is my dream come true. A pack of women. Good friends through thick and thin.
“I’m so glad you’re all here,” I tell them, love and happiness rising to bring a shine to my eyes.
“You say that like we’d be anyplace else,” Olive quips, adding a ta-da when she finishes another bow.
“Well, you have to be here. You’re family,” I say to her.
“So’s Mom, technically, but I’d say she doesn’t have to be here.” Olive laughs drily.
“C’mon, you know she can’t resist a wedding,” I tease.
“Who can’t?”
I tense everywhere as my mom’s voice carries across the suite. Is she a freaking cat? I didn’t even hear her enter. But now she saunters in, head held high, clasping a pretty white ribbon and a garment bag, which I presume holds her mother-of-the-bride dress.
I hope she didn’t hear me. She’ll go full drama llama, tears and all.
“No single she in the universe can resist a wedding.” Olive jumps in, and I could kiss her for taking that grenade for me. If my mom knew I’d thrown shade on her love of weddings, she’d fling a hand on her chest, fall to the floor in a fit of tears, and demand to know what she’d done wrong.
I can’t. Not today.
She hangs the garment bag on the hook on the door. “I love weddings. I just do,” Mom says, with a dramatic sigh, and maybe she’s why I never imagined my own nuptials growing up. I witnessed too many of hers.
But this is not the day to think about her four failed marriages.
Today I will zoom in on my one marriage, and the only wedding I plan to have.
My mom crosses the carpeted floor, her dyed red hair styled in a stunning updo, clearly professionally done. She flicks a hand lightly against a few wisps, drawing attention, silently fishing for compliments.
“You look great,” I assure her.
“Thanks. The mother of the bride should look stunning.”
Olive rolls her eyes.
“But do you think I should add this white ribbon to my hair?” she asks.
“No. White is for the bride, Mom,” Olive answers.
Mom ignores her, then parks her hands on my shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of my head. Karissa snaps her gaze up from the front of my hair. “Careful, there. Don’t want to knock a hair out of place. Just let me finish.”
Mom pulls away, scoffing. “I didn’t mess it up. I just gave her a kiss.”
Karissa shoots Mom a sympathetic smile. “Of course you didn’t mess it up. But we want the bride’s hair to be fabulous.”
“Her hair looks perfect,” my mom says, bristling, as Karissa silently returns to her work.
The suite goes quiet. Too quiet.
My friends know not to argue with someone who’s always right.
But my mother can slice through any silence with her voice. “Anyway, let me know what else I can do as the mother of the bride,” she says to the room. Then to me in the mirror, she adds, “Since, apparently, I can’t give you away.”
Again? We’re doing this again? “Because no one is giving me away,” I say calmly. I’m opting out of some rituals. “Just like I don’t have a dowry. Just like we both have engagement rings.”
“And I disagree. Your father and I should give you away. Wouldn’t that be fair? Aren’t you a feminist?” Mom asks, like feminist is the equivalent of a nose-picker.
But I won’t take her bait.
“Sometimes I am. Mostly on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, we smash the patriarchy,” I say with a shrug.
Olive snickers.
Jillian reins in a laugh.
Emerson just smiles.
“But it’s Saturday,” my mother points out, flummoxed.
I sigh. “I know. It’s a saying. My point is, this is what I want.” I won’t let her win this battle. This is her tenth time trying. “I’m paying for the wedding myself. No one is giving me away. I’m an independent woman. I’m good with this, Mom. The only thing I want that I didn’t get is axe-throwing at the reception.”
She scoffs at me. “Who would do axe-throwing at her wedding?”
“Who wouldn’t? It’s crazy fun.” I had suggested it to Silvio for the reception, but he politely declined. He also politely declined my suggestion that we have a small wedding by the Pacific Ocean, then do bowling and sushi with our closest friends. But hey, I can’t complain about the Legion of Honor and champagne. Or a honeymoon in Dublin, visiting the countryside to take pics, rather than Kauai doing an adventure tour.
“I doubt it’s that enjoyable,” Mom says about the axe-throwing.
“We’ll go do it together sometime, Mom,” I offer as an olive branch. I’m in the mood to spread love, not spew snide. “I swear, you’ll enjoy it more than giving me away.”
“Fine. Don’t let me give you away. I’ll survive,” Mom says as Karissa runs a brush down my bangs, giving them a wispy look. “But I ask you this, darling—are you one hundred percent sure you want to marry Silvio?”
I flinch and hold up a hand to ask Karissa to stop. Then I turn around in the chair, eyeing the redhead who raised me. “Why are you asking this now?”
Olive wheels around from setting the smelly sunflowers on a table. “Yes, Mom. Why?”
My mother squares her shoulders. “It’s important to be certain. Isn’t that what you two preach in your yoga practice?” She gestures from Olive to me and back.
I answer in a rush. “It’s not a religion. We don’t preach it. Also, our brand is yoga that doesn’t take itself too seriously.” There Mom goes again, winding me up, getting me off-topic. “But why are you asking if I’m certain about Silvio?”