I Couldn't Stand In My Light Blue Dress While She Said It's My Day...

The photographer called break and the string quartet started up again, and I felt her hand close around my elbow. Not pulling, just steady pressure.

"Come here," she whispered. She was the standing bridesmaid, the one in the one-shoulder dress who hadn't let go of the chair when I tried to stand. "You need water."

I nodded. My mouth was dry and the chandeliers made halos that bled into each other. She guided me past the gold chiavari chairs toward the hallway alcove where they'd tucked that big white floral arrangement. Roses and hydrangeas, the smell too sweet, too heavy. It was quieter there, away from the tables. The polished floor reflected the warm light and I had to look down at my shoes to keep my eyes from watering.

She let go of me once we were in the alcove. She stood close, her shoulder almost touching mine, her dress the same light blue as mine. Up close I could see she'd been crying a little, mascara just slightly smudged.

"Hey," she said softly. "Can I ask you something? About the bandana."

I reached up without thinking and touched the edge of it. Light blue cotton, tied tight. My fingers knew the knot by heart.

"I had my third infusion Tuesday," I said. My voice sounded thin even to me. "At the county clinic. Every other Tuesday. They said the light sensitivity would get worse."

She didn't flinch. She just watched my face.

"That's what I meant earlier," I said. "When I said it blinds me. The chandeliers in there. I wasn't being dramatic. The nurses gave me this for the glare. And because my hair started falling out last week in the shower. I didn't want to—" I stopped and swallowed. "I didn't want to make it a thing on her day."

I could hear the clink of glasses from the reception hall, someone laughing too loud. My breathing was still shallow from standing for that photo.

"Tuesday," she repeated. "You came Saturday. Four days after chemo."

"I told my mom I shouldn't come," I said. "She said I should if I felt okay. I did, that morning. That morning I felt okay. I thought I could sit in the back and just be there and nobody would notice."

Her eyes went to the bandana again, then back to me. She took a slow breath.

"Did she know?" she asked. "Did the bride know?"

I stared at the flowers so I wouldn't have to look at her. The white petals were starting to brown at the edges.

"Yeah," I said. "I told her three weeks ago. On the phone. I said I was doing chemo, I said I'd probably need to wear the bandana and I might need to sit a lot. She said 'yeah, of course' and then she said 'but you'll still stand for photos, right?' I said I'd try."

My friend's hand flexed at her side.

"She knew," she said. Not a question this time.

"She knew enough," I said. "She didn't ask what it was for. I don't think she wanted details. She just kept saying it was going to be perfect and she needed everyone on their feet for the entrance."

Behind us, a server walked past with a tray of empty stemware. The sound made me think of the broken glass on the floor.

"She minimized it," I whispered. "Like it was a cold."

She moved then, like she was going to turn back toward the ballroom. Her jaw was tight.

"Let me tell her," she said. "Right now. Before you have to. I'll tell her you're sick and she needs to back off. She'll listen to me."

I caught her wrist. My grip wasn't strong but she stopped.

"No," I said. "Please don't."

"Why not? She doesn't get it. She thinks you're just—"

"She needs to hear it from me," I said. "Not as gossip. Not as you telling on her. If it goes through someone else she'll just get defensive and it'll be about how you embarrassed her. It has to be mine to say."

She looked down at my hand on her wrist, then up again. Her eyes were wet.

"What if you tell her and she still doesn't care?" she asked, quiet.

"Then I know," I said. "But I need to do it alone. No audience. Not out there with the chandeliers and the glasses and everyone watching. In the suite, just us. That's the only way she'll actually hear it."

She hesitated, then nodded once, short.

"Okay," she said. "Okay, your call. But I'm right outside that door. You text me if you need me to come in. Promise me."

"I promise," I said.

She reached out and carefully, gently, adjusted the bandana where it had slipped a little at my temple. Her fingers didn't linger. Just fixed it and dropped.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"My scalp's sore," I said. "And the lights. But I'm okay right now. Really."

We stood there a second longer in the alcove, breathing in that flower smell, listening to the party go on without us. I felt steadier than I had since I'd tried to stand. My decision sat clear in my chest.

"Will you walk me there after the next song?" I asked her. "To the dressing suite? I want to knock."