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– Marcella
“It’s beautiful!” Penny squeals when I step out onto the excessive catwalk with an excessive train and locate the excessive display of mirrors. I’d be inclined to believe Penny’s assessment, save that her response has been the exact same every time I’ve pushed the curtain aside and exited in a new wedding gown.
Which, at this point in the evening, must be something I’ve done around five hundred times.
I am hot, sweaty, uncomfortable, and so over touching lace.
I can’t believe I shaved for this.
Who even am I?
“Arms up,” Brigid says.
I look at the itchy sleeves effectively gluing my arms down. If I try to fight the stiff fabric, it may tear, and then what will I do? Buy two several-thousand dollar dresses?
Absolutely I think not.
“Do not ask the impossible of me when I’m hungry,” I mutter.
Brigid arches a brow. “You can’t lift your arms?”
“Is lifting my arms actually mandatory?”
“If you don’t want to be grouchy during the entire wedding, I think yes.”
“Mm.” Mom shakes her head and pushes back a lock of salted brown hair. “I agree with Bridge. If you can barely move, it’s not going to be a fun time for you, and then you’ll be irritable throughout the entire ceremony.”
“These are wedding dresses.” I reference the rows of white puffs surrounding us. “Nothing with long sleeves is going to be particularly durable.”
“Sweetie,” Mom says, lips pinching, “why are you so set on long sleeves? Think about later, after you have some kids and want to fit into your wedding gown again.”
I narrow my eyes. “No. I don’t want to. Getting married is one thing. Getting pregnant? That’s something else entirely.” I attempt to cross my arms, but guess who can’t manage such a thing in this dress, either.
“It’s true,” my beautiful bud Brigid provides, with amicable coolness. “Children are sticky. You can’t be trusted not to whack anything sticky that touches you into next week.”
Penny giggles, clamping a hand to her mouth. “It wouldn’t even need to be sticky. The last time Marciboo hit a child was embarrassingly recent.”
“That’s true.” Mom pinches her chin. “Okay, I rescind the comment about kids. You should never be a mother, Marci.”
Now I have to be one.
Out of spite.
Which probably means I really shouldn’t be one, now that I’m thinking about it.
The thing is, Finn’s form asked about children, and I did say I wanted a family…stickiness and all.
“I haven’t hit a child for at least a year. And it’s been over a decade since it was on purpose.” Huffing, I turn toward the mirrors and hate everything I’m looking at. “I’d be a good enough mother… Probably.” Straightening myself as I catch my thoughts wandering, I snap, “But that is not important right now. The only thing I want to think about is that I planned an outdoor wedding at the end of November, and I don’t want to be cold. It’s long sleeves, or I’m wearing my butterfly wing cape. And that’s final.”
Mom sighs. “That is not final. There are more options that you aren’t considering. For instance…” She trails to a fluffy white bundle hanging in the corner beside the attendant who gave up on helping when I told her not to touch me. “…what about this?”
“Is that a dead animal?”
Void of emotion, the attendant chimes in, “It’s faux fur.”
“See? Fake. A fake fur shawl on something sleeveless will give you more mobility.” Mom’s lip juts. “I know it may be difficult for you to understand this, Marci, but I would like you to wear something comfortable enough to smile in.”
My nose scrunches.
