by Roxie Noir
The fruit basket stays there, slowly rotting, until one of my brothers throws the whole thing away weeks later.
Chapter Ten
Delilah
Present Day
I glance along the hallway at Monica, Ava’s wedding coordinator, but she seems busy, so I crouch and hold the end of my bouquet to the floor as requested.
“There’s a big tree,” says a two-inch-long blue plastic plesiosaur.
“I think we should eat it,” answers a green stegosaurus.
“Please don’t eat me,” I say, wiggling the bouquet slightly. “I’ve got a wedding to attend!”
Bree, my three-year-old niece, starts giggling. The dinosaurs advance.
“Nooooooo,” my bouquet says. “Not my flowers!”
The giggling intensifies, and she looks up at me, pure mischief in her blue eyes.
“CHOMP!” she giggle-shouts, as the plesiosaur somehow launches itself, face-first, into a lily. “Chomp chomp chomp!”
“Auuugh!”
“CHOMP.”
That’s the stegosaurus getting in on the action.
“My beautiful tree!” I bemoan.
“This one’s tasty,” one of the dinosaurs advises, though I can’t tell which one. “Mmmm.”
“Flower girl?” Monica calls, and my head snaps up. “We need the flower girl, please.”
“That’s you, kiddo,” I tell Bree.
“Chomp chomp,” she says, looking back at the bouquet.
“Places, please,” Monica says, striding toward us. She’s holding a clipboard and she has a Bluetooth receiver in her ear, so you know she means business.
“C’mon, you gotta throw flowers so your aunt Ava can get married,” I coax. “She can’t walk down a naked aisle, can she?”
Bree giggles again.
“The aisle is naked?” she asks, and I immediately regret my choice of words.
“Only if you don’t put flowers on it,” I say, and hold out one hand. “Here, I’ll keep the dinos safe, okay?”
“Bree, honey,” her mom Winona calls.
She deposits the plastic figurines into my hand, looking very serious. I nod, and then she’s off, running full-toddler-tilt to the front of the line.
“No running,” I hear her mom say as I stand, smooth my skirt, and put the dinos into my pocket.
Pockets: it’s the one saving grace this dress has. Not that there’s anything really wrong with this bridesmaid dress, but there’s nothing really right with it either. It’s long and dusky pink and lacy and isn’t at all what I’d pick out for myself.
Besides the pockets. Everyone loves pockets.
“All right, everyone,” Monica calls, holding up one hand to get our attention.
She’s standing in front of a massive double door, facing the neatly-lined-up wedding parties
“Are we ready to release the groomsmen?” she asks. “Let me know when it’s time to give the signal for the signal.”
All eyes turn to Thad, and for a quick second, he looks terrified.
Then he remembers to smile and overcompensates by smiling too much and giving the crowd a big double thumbs-up.
“Ready and willing!” he says, and there’s polite laughter.
No one asks Ava, because she’s in the bridal suite. She doesn’t want Thad to see her until she’s walking down the aisle, and even though I’ve told myself over and over again that she wants it that way for tradition’s sake, I can’t shake the quiet suspicion that it’s also so she can’t back out.
I look down at my bouquet of dusky pink roses and white lilies, at my bare fingers, and ignore my unease.
Thad isn’t Nolan. Ava isn’t me. My worries have nothing to do with them and everything to do with me.
The beginning strains of Canon in D float through the doors. I hold my breath, steeling myself for my least favorite part of every wedding.
The doors swing open.
Fuck me sideways, that’s a lot of people and they’re all looking in my direction.
I take the arm of Thad’s older brother Chad, my companion. I stand up straight. I hold my bouquet properly at about boob height, as instructed, and when it’s our turn, I fuckin’ promenade.
Nothing exciting happens. Thank God.
I smile nicely, don’t trip, find my spot in the front, and I’m done. That’s my entire job. This is almost certainly the last time I’ll be walking down an aisle at a wedding of this magnitude, and I’m not even a little bit sad about it.
After that, it’s a wedding. It’s lovely and meaningful and heartfelt, but I also admit that I spend much of the ceremony studying the ceiling, wondering if the decorations are original to the manor or re-created.
They exchange vows and rings. Thad kisses the bride, and everyone cheers, including me. We all walk back down the aisle and just as I’m thinking about how glad I am that I’ll never have to do this again, I swear to God I see Seth.
Or, at least, I see a brief glance of a quarter of his head. Really, it’s just some dark hair at approximately the right height, but the part of my brain that’s always on the lookout starts shouting and poking me, but he’s already disappeared behind the crowd.
I snap my head forward and complete my journey.
Not Seth, I tell myself. Other people have hair, and also, someone would have told you if he were coming.
Right? Right.
Before I can get any further down that particular mental path, a pink streak clomps up to me.
“Delilah!” Bree gasps, and I bend down to her height. “I saved you these!”
She throws a fistful of rose petals into my face and laughs.
“I need the bridesmaid on the end to step in a little,” the photographer calls, waving her hand in the universal scootch motion.
Behind her, I can see the wedding guests through the big arched windows, mingling and drinking and eating finger foods. They look warm.
Did they end up getting the mini crabcakes? I wonder, watching a woman in a long blue dress take something from a tray. Those were good but I know Ava was worried about —
“Delilah,” Vera says from her place next to the photographer, and I jolt to attention.
Right. I’m the bridesmaid on the end.
I scootch, careful not to put a foot wrong on the cobblestones, and Chad scootches with me. We resume our delicate-hold-from-behind-without-really-touching prom-esque pose. The camera clicks.
“Smile!” Vera calls, and I resist the urge to shout I’m already smiling, dammit.
More pictures. More adjusting. I’m freezing my tits off out here despite my faux-fur capelet, and I silently hope that one of the waiters with a tray of champagne will take mercy on us and swing by the photoshoot. I only managed to grab one glass before being herded outside, and it was not enough.
I elbow Chad by accident during another adjustment and apologize; he’s very gracious about it. I smile and glance through the windows again, because that definitely wasn’t Seth, right? I’m just being a little crazy, right?
“Delilah,” Vera says. It’s clearly not the first time she’s said my name.
“Sorry,” I say, and glance around to find the groomsmen gone.
“Bridesmaid picture!” Ava chirps. “Oh, I want to do one of those ones where everyone is jumping in the air!”
Please, God, no. I’m wearing heels and a strapless bra. This is not a jumping outfit.
“Let me get the formal one first,” the photographer says. “Good, good --"
“Those jumping photos never turn out,” I say, still smiling.
“I’ve seen them,” Ava says.
“Those are models,” I point out, adjusting my bouquet slightly. “They’re jumping photo professionals. It never works with regular people.”
“Now look at the bride,” the photographer instructs.
Ava smiles. She’s radiant, filled with pure light and joy.
I wonder what it feels like.
“Now act natural!” the photographer calls, and
I have no idea how to do that so I just move around some.
“Delilah, it’ll be fine,” Ava tells me, laughing. “I believe in you.”
“Jumping photo is next,” calls the photog. “The key to getting a good one is for everyone to jump at the exact same time, and remember to smile! We’ll need a few takes, so get ready.”
The things I do for my little sister.
The photographer counts down from three. I jump — in heels, on cobblestones, wearing a strapless bra contraption — and I don’t die.
Then we do it again. And again. I remember to smile. We’re advised to really throw our hands up and kick our feet out, and by God, I try. I’m pretty sure that I look completely insane and probably like a baby camel on a trampoline, but I try.
It takes two jumps for my undergarments to start shifting. I try to discreetly adjust them under my cape, but it doesn’t work.
After three jumps, I’m in trouble.
After four, I feel the unmistakable sensation of lace on my left nipple. That can mean only one thing: my nipple has been freed.
After six, my right nipple joins its partner. Thank God for this cape.
After eight jumps, we get to stop. The other bridesmaids are all laughing with each other, still looking perfectly put together, as though they frequently do jumping jacks in strapless bras and simply don’t see the issue.
“All right, can I have the groomsmen over here?” the photographer calls, and I’m free.
Just like my nipples.
I hold my cape tightly closed and make my way to the edge of the group, subtly trying to pull everything back into place, but it’s not really working. I swear this bra has somehow turned itself inside out and upside down.
After a moment, my sister Winona sidles over to me.
“You need some help?” she asks.
I make a face and wriggle. She laughs.
“My boobs made a run for it,” I mutter. “I have time to go to the bathroom, right?”
Winona grimaces and glances over at the photographer. Sunset is minutes away, and according to the Official Photography Plan, we’re doing the big group shots then.
“Here,” she says, and nods at the side of the manor house. “Come on. Callum just peed in a bush over here, you’ll be hidden.”
I let her guide me and don’t point out that Callum is a toddler, I’m a full-grown woman, and we have different expectations of privacy.
Pinehall Manor was built in the 1890s as a mountain getaway for some Yankee industrialist with a serious hard-on for the antebellum South. It’s huge and white, brick walkways extending from every side like it’s the center of a compass rose, a wraparound porch on each of two stories.
Winona leads me onto the lower porch, around a corner, our shoes louder on the wooden surface than on the brick. I glance into one gauzily-curtained window, but the guests’ cocktail hour is on the second floor, not the first, so there’s no one inside.
“Okay,” she says. “Lift up your cape and use it like you’re at the beach changing into your swimsuit. I’m gonna undo you back here.”
There’s a brief rush of cold air as she lifts the back of my cape and gets to work. For reasons I’ll never understand, this dress has a long series of tiny buttons that start at the waist and go all the way to the nape of the neck.
To be honest, there’s a lot about this dress I wouldn’t have chosen. It’s pink, which I don’t love. It’s got a plunging, low-backed strapless bodice with a long-sleeved lace overlay, which made finding a bra feel like the quest for the Holy Grail.
When I finally found The One, I was this close to just duct-taping my boobs and hoping it worked. Now, I kind of wish I had.
The skirt is long, flowy, A-line, and has pockets, making it the best part of my entire outfit. Well, the skirt and the cape, which does make me feel a little like a Russian empress.
“There,” Winona says, and I start wriggling out of the top of the dress, cape still over my shoulders. “You fix yourself, I’ll stand guard.”
“Thanks,” I say, already heaving at the bra, which isn’t just any bra. It’s more like a bra-and-corset combo that goes down to my sternum in the front but, through some miracle of engineering, still holds both boobs in place while also fastening low enough in the back that it’s invisible.
There’s lots of padding, elastic, and wires, and God knows what else. Truly, a wonder garment.
I straighten, adjust, and wriggle. I glance around and then bend over, tugging at the thing with both hands, letting gravity do some of the work. When I’m upright again, Winona grabs the back and together we tug while I hop, both of us grunting slightly.
At last, it’s back in place. I shimmy slightly, double-checking my boob security, but all seems well as long as I don’t have to leap in the air again.
“Ready,” I say, pulling the cape up.
“Gotcha,” she says, and begins buttoning.
After a few, she sighs.
“Can you take the cape off for a sec?” she asks. “These buttons are an absolute bear to do up and I can’t see. I don’t know why Ava picked this dress.”
“She liked the delicate details,” I offer, and Winona just sighs.
“When she and Thad have kids, I’m taking my revenge by giving her really cute baby pajamas with a thousand snaps,” she says. “See how she likes —”
Behind us, a child wails.
“Shit,” Winona hisses, and before I can even turn around, she’s gone, my dress still half-buttoned.
“Winona?” I call, twisting around.
The wail turns into a screech. Another wail joins the first, and I grimace. I know that it’s probably nothing worse than a sibling-induced scrape, but it’s one hell of a sound.
I wait for a few minutes. The wail fades into a cry, and then disappears. I wait another minute or so, watching the shadows get even longer, willing Winona to come back and finish me.
She doesn’t. It’s like Winona never even existed.
In the meantime, I gently toss my cape onto a bush and try to button myself.
It doesn’t work. It doesn’t even almost work.
“Winona!” I shout.
Nothing.
“Winona!”
I sneak to the corner of the building and peek around, hoping that maybe I can flag down some female relative.
I see no one. Not a single soul. I don’t even know how that’s possible, given that there are at least four hundred people around right now, but none of them are here.
Shit.
“WINONA!” I holler. “HELP!”
Silence drifts back to me, as if the rest of humanity has disappeared from the earth.
Now I have a dilemma. Do I stay here and wait? Do I try to dislocate a shoulder in the hopes that I can button this dress myself?
Do I walk back, dress agape, to the group that contains all three of my brothers-in-law and also my dad?
Even though I know it’s just my back and a bra clasp, I really don’t like that last option. The thought of Winona’s or Olivia’s husbands seeing even part of my undergarments just… feels wrong.
Okay, so that’s the last resort, I decide, and walk back to the side of the building. I take a deep breath. I stretch a little, then square my shoulders.
You got this, I tell myself. Finally put all that yoga to use.
It’s slow. It’s unnatural. Twisting my shoulders that way kind of hurts, but at last, I get one.
Then I get two.
I’ve got the third tiny, silky, slippery button almost through the fabric loop when there are footsteps behind me.
“Oh, thank God,” I say. “I think I tore my rotator cuff on this last one.”
Winona doesn’t say anything, which is weird, but whatever. I let the button go and hold the dress together at the top, bending my head forward.
“I don’t know why they didn’t also put a zipper on this thing,” I say, still bitching about the dress. “It’d still have the delicate details, but we wouldn’t
need a lady’s maid to get decent.”
More silence, and this time my skin prickles because I’m starting to suspect it’s not Winona behind me but from my position, the only thing I’ve got a view of is my armpit.
“Winona,” I say, turning my head further as they tug on the next button.
I still can’t see, so I straighten, start to lower my arms.
“Are you —”
“Hold still,” says Seth. “These things are impossible.”
Chapter Eleven
Seth
Delilah whirls, jerking away from me so fast that a button comes off between my fingers.
“Seth?” she blurts.
Then: “What the fuck?”
“I heard a damsel in distress, so I came running,” I say, as if it’s something I do all the time.
“From where?” she asks. “You’re… hold on.”
She’s not angry. Not yet. Right now she’s just astonished, lips parted, brow furrowed as she looks me over, processes the fact that I’m standing here wearing my best suit.
Behind me, the sun is settling in the sky, and the fading rays catch her in their light. Delilah glows golden, even as she closes her eyes and shakes her head like I’m an etch-a-sketch she can erase.
“Specifically, I heard you in distress,” I offer, closing my fist around the tiny pink button.
“As if you wouldn’t answer any damsel’s distress call,” she says without moving, eyes still closed.
I squeeze the button a little tighter, breathe, bite back the first three answers that spring to my lips.
“I sure didn’t come out here to fight about it,” I say, after a moment.
“Right,” she breathes, scrunches her face, shakes her head again. Opens her eyes. Clears her throat. “Sorry, that was unfair.”
“Thanks,” I say, and just like that, the fight we nearly had drifts away in the breeze like so much dust.
Then we look at each other. Just look. It’s a strange, unanchored moment, and I can’t help but smile.
“Did we just display surprising maturity?” I ask.