Chapter 15
The door to the private suite didn't slam when she left. It clicked. I heard her heels on the polished floor before I saw her again, that steady tap-tap that had run the whole night. I stayed where I was for a second longer, my hands flat on the cool marble of the sink, breathing.
When I came out, the hall had shifted. The band was packing a little slower, like they were waiting for a cue. The string lights over the dance floor buzzed faintly. She was already back inside. I saw her from the hallway.
She didn't make an announcement. She walked to the edge of the dance floor where the gold chiavari chair still sat at an angle, half-pulled out where I'd left it, and she bent down and lifted it. No one told her to. She carried it the six feet back to the line of chairs by our table and set it down square, both front legs even. She ran her hand once across the seat, not to dust it, just to check it was steady. Then she looked toward the doorway where I was standing.
Megan was beside me before I realized she'd followed me back. Her hand found my elbow, light.
"Hey," she whispered. "You good to come back in?"
The bride didn't wave me over. She stayed by the chair and said it plain, loud enough for me and Megan, not the whole room.
"You can sit," she said. "If you want to. Last song's in a few minutes. You don't have to dance. You don't have to do anything."
It wasn't an apology speech. It wasn't performed. Her voice was lower than it had been at 8 p.m., when she'd said you can't sit, it's my day. No edge now. Just tired. Her arms were at her sides, not crossed. She left the choice hanging there instead of filling it.
I nodded. My throat was dry. "I'll sit," I said. "Through the last song. Not dancing."
"Okay," she said.
Megan squeezed my elbow. "I'm right there," she said.
We walked the last few steps together. I sat down in the chair she'd just placed. The cushion was still warm from the room. Megan pulled the chair next to mine close enough that our shoulders almost touched and sat too. Across the table, a couple of cousins who'd been watching all night finally looked away, not out of awkwardness but because there was nothing left to stare at. The band leader checked his watch, then looked at the bride for a nod.
She stepped up to the microphone by the cake table. She hadn't planned this. I could tell by the way she held the stem of the mic like she wasn't sure what to do with her other hand.
"I'll keep this short," she said. The speakers crackled a little. "Thank you for being here, for making the day what it was. I know I was... I held things tight today. I wanted everything perfect and I forgot perfect isn't the point."
She paused and glanced at our table. Not a spotlight, not a call-out.
"Thank you to my girls," she said. "For standing with me. All of you. Especially for staying when it was hard to stay. That means more than the photos."
She didn't ask me to stand. She didn't tell the story of the bandana or the glass. She left it at thank you and stepped back. A few people clapped, soft. Megan's hand brushed mine under the table.
The band started the last song. It was slow, something old, a guitar and a brush on a snare. Couples moved onto the polished floor where the broken stemware had been swept clean hours ago. You could still see a faint wet mark where the liquid had spilled if you knew where to look. Most people didn't.
I didn't dance. I sat with my back against the chair, my feet flat, my breathing even. Megan didn't dance either. She sat with me, one hand resting on the arm of my chair, not holding me up, just there. The bride danced once with her husband, then with her dad, her white skirt swaying. She didn't look over every five seconds to check if I was still sitting. She just danced.
When the song hit its middle eight, I felt the night settle. The chandeliers threw warm light on the white tablecloths. My pale blue dress felt less like a costume and more like what it was, a dress I'd chosen to wear. The bandana was still tied, a little loose now, and I didn't fix it.
The song ended. People clapped. Chairs scraped. Someone laughed near the bar.
I stood when I was ready, not when the lights came up. I reached into the small clutch I'd tucked under the table earlier. Inside, folded in a napkin, were the two fragments of stemware Megan had helped me pick up after the fall. I'd washed them in the bathroom sink. They were clean, the edges dull but still sharp enough to catch light.
I walked to the gift table by the exit where the cards and little boxes were stacked. I didn't make a show of it. I unfolded the napkin and left the fragments at the corner of the table, not hidden, not centered. Just there. A silent witness that the night had actually happened, that we weren't going to pretend the floor hadn't broken.
Megan saw me do it and didn't say anything. She just nodded.
Outside, the sidewalk was cool. The parking lot lights hummed. I pulled my wrap around my shoulders and took a breath of air that didn't smell like cake and perfume.
The bride came to the doorway as I was stepping toward the curb. She didn't follow me out.
"Text me when you're home?" she said.
"I will," I said.
May you like
That was all. No promise that everything was fixed. No big hug for the cameras, because the photographer had left an hour ago. We were redefined, not erased. I had stayed on my terms, left on my time, and she had finally let a chair be just a chair.
Megan walked me to my car. I didn't look back at the hall.
