Chapter 5
The band had started again, low and careful, like they weren't sure if they should be playing at all. The drummer brushed the snare and the bass kept it soft, background music for people pretending to look at their plates. Guests had resettled but nobody was really talking. I could feel every eye flick toward our table and then away again, fast.
I hadn't moved. My hands were around the water glass the catering manager had left for me, and I was breathing through my nose, counting. The standing bridesmaid — Maya — stayed behind my chair, one hand light on my shoulder. She hadn't let go since the glass broke.
The bride came back.
She didn't rush. She walked from the center of the dance floor straight to our table, her white gown catching the chandelier light, her pearl earrings bright against her low bun. Her arms were no longer crossed, but her mouth was set the same way. Two other bridesmaids followed her a step behind and then stopped, as if they'd been told to wait.
She stopped at the edge of the table and looked down at me.
"Well, Princess," she said. The word was sharp, sarcastic, louder than it needed to be. "You good now? Ready to be part of this or do you need another rest?"
The name hit before the question did.
She'd said it earlier, in that first blur when I told her the lights were hurting my eyes. It just blinds me, Princess. Wait, drop this up. Okay, we're just — I'd been trying to tell her the chandeliers were too bright, that my head was pounding from the chemo, that the bandana wasn't a fashion choice. She'd cut me off with that name, the same tone she was using now.
Maya's fingers tightened on my shoulder.
I remembered sitting in her apartment six months earlier, trying on these light blue dresses. I'd been bald under a beanie then, between rounds, and she had looked at me in the mirror and said, "God, Princess, you are so dramatic about the color. It's not that serious." She always called me Princess when she was annoyed with me. Not sweet. Not a joke. A correction. Like I was acting entitled for being tired, or cold, or scared, or bald. When I told her I might not be able to make the wedding because my counts were low, she'd said, "Don't be a princess about it. Just come." I'd come anyway, because she was my cousin and because Maya said she'd stay with me the whole time.
Now she said it again, in front of everyone who had heard her say You can't sit, it's my day, like the nickname proved I was the problem.
I tried to answer and my throat was dry. I swallowed.
"I didn't mean —" I started. My voice was small.
Maya cut in. She leaned forward just enough that only our table could hear her clearly, but the couple at the next table turned their heads anyway.
"She's sick," she said. Quiet, flat, one sentence. Not an excuse. A fact.
It hung there. I felt my eyes sting. I didn't want her to have to say it for me.
The bride didn't look at Maya. She kept her eyes on me, and her smile went thin and too wide, the kind of smile she used for photos when she was mad.
She waved a hand at the empty space above the table, like she was adjusting something invisible.
"Wait, drop this up," she said quickly, her voice suddenly light and concerned, pitched for the guests. "I was worried about the lighting for her. I told the band to drop it up — I mean, turn it down — I've been looking out for her all night."
It wasn't true. The lights hadn't changed. She hadn't talked to the band. She was taking the words she'd used to shut me down earlier — Wait, drop this up — and trying to make them sound like care, like she'd been helping. She said it with a little laugh, and checked over her shoulder to see if the nearby guests were nodding.
Nobody nodded. The woman at the next table, older, in a navy dress, kept staring. A groomsman who'd been watching from the bar shook his head just a little and looked down at his drink.
Maya didn't move her hand from my shoulder. Her breathing was audible behind me.
"She didn't need the lights dropped," Maya said, still quiet. "She needed to sit."
The bride's smile slipped. For a second her real expression came through — furrowed brow, pursed lips, the same stern look she'd had when she crossed her arms in that tight close-up. Then she caught herself and smoothed it over.
"Well, she's sitting," she said, still calling me she like I wasn't there. She looked at me again. "Right, Princess?"
I held the water glass with both hands so they wouldn't shake. The polished floor where the stemware had shattered was clean now, but I could still see the faint wet mark where the liquid had spilled. My bandana felt tight around my head. I was pale and slumped and breathing hard and I knew how I looked in that chair, in that light blue strapless dress that matched hers.
May you like
I didn't answer. I didn't give her the Princess back.
The band played on, low, and the whole table heard what she hadn't said.
