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BIANCA
“Fuckity fuck fuck!” I cry as I yank my hairbrush through my tangled hair.
Wedding days are meant to be a cause for celebration. But so far, all this day has done is make me want to lock myself in the bathroom with a bottle of tequila.
It’s my own stupid fault for not double checking my alarm last night before I passed out.
I wish someone had told me how much work is involved when you’re a bridesmaid. I thought all I had to do was put on the dress that my cousin Rosanna picked out and walk down the aisle and be done with it.
Oh, how wrong I was.
It was past midnight by the time I finished double checking the RSVP list for all two hundred guests and confirming it against the seating chart and catering choices.
I don’t think Rosanna even knows two-hundred people, but we’re from a big Italian family so everyone who’s somewhat related to us automatically has a spot on the guest list.
The last thing I remember before my head hitting the pillow was silently promising myself that I would get up early to steam my dress and wash my hair before heading to the Waldorf for the ceremony.
If only future Bianca had a time machine…
I glare at myself in the bathroom mirror, noting the dark under eye circles. I should be leaving for the venue in thirty minutes but looking at the state of my hair and face, it’s going to take a miracle to transform myself into a somewhat presentable human in such a short amount of time.
I am so fucked.
Thankfully, Rosanna is pretty relaxed in terms of the bridesmaids hair and makeup so I tame my long brown hair into a slick back bun, hoping it looks chic rather than greasy and apply more natural makeup that makes the blue of my eyes pop as that’s all I have time for.
As I slap on some mascara and call it a day, I head back out into the main living space of my Manhattan studio, cursing at the state of the room.
It’s not a very large space so it doesn’t take much for it to get out of control, but the empty pizza boxes littering the coffee table along with discarded seating charts and clothes on every surface makes me cringe.
I’m better than this, but I put it down to wedding stress.
“I’m eloping when my time comes,” I mutter as I wade through the countless lists of guests and registry items, searching for my dress which I eventually find slung over the back of the couch.
“Shit, I completely forgot to steam it,” I groan.
The material is fairly forgiving but it would look better if I could get out the huge crease down the center of the dress before I walk down the aisle.
“I’m going to murder past Bianca,” I mutter under my breath as I toss the dress over my arm.
By the time I’ve collected my heels and packed my dress into a garment bag and sorted another bag with overnight things, my makeup, and my trusted pair of converse to change into later, I only have two minutes to get into my car and start driving across to the venue.
Muttering yet more curse words in a mixture of English and Italian as I search for my keys, eventually finding them tucked under an old Chinese takeout container on the countertop, I dart out of my apartment and start taking the stairs two at a time.
I can already feel a thin film of sweat building on my top lip and the back of my neck as I throw open the front door to the building and dart around the side to where my Mercedes is parked.
Throwing my bag onto the passenger seat, I slide behind the wheel and press the start button.
Nothing happens.
“Oh, please. Don’t do this to me,” I moan, pressing it again.
The dashboard remains dark, and the engine is yet to roar to life as I continue to press the ignition.
“No, no, no!” I cry out, slamming my hands against the steering wheel.
Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I check the time.
