Chapter 6
The bride didn't look at me when she said it. She looked past me at the photographer who'd come up to the edge of the dance floor with his camera hanging from his neck.
"We need that chair for the lineup," she said. Her arms were still crossed, but now one hand pointed. "Take it."
I was still holding onto the armrests. The light blue dress stuck to the back of my knees. My bandana had slipped a little and I could feel sweat under it. I hadn't realized how much I'd been leaning on that gold chiavari chair until she told someone to take it.
A kid from the catering staff, maybe nineteen, in a black vest, stepped forward and then stopped. He looked from the bride to me to the standing bridesmaid beside me. His hands hovered near the back of the chair.
"Ma'am?" he said, quiet, to the bride. "She's sitting in it."
"She can stand for two minutes," the bride said. Her voice stayed low, even. That made it worse, because the photographer and two tables nearby could hear it clearly. "It's my day. I want the chairs clean for photos. You can't sit for this part."
I heard that line again and it landed differently than it had when the glass broke. Before it had been sharp and loud. Now it was administrative. That's what made my stomach drop.
The standing bridesmaid — Maya, who'd been holding the chair and my arm since I first tried to get up — tightened her grip on my elbow. "She needs to sit," she said, not loud, but firm. "Lauren, she needs to sit."
The bride's jaw moved. She didn't uncross her arms. "Maya, don't."
The staffer glanced at the photographer like someone might overrule her. No one did for a second. Then the photographer lifted his hands a little, palms out.
"Hey, we can shoot around the chair," he said. "Actually better with it, gives shape to the row. Not worth moving."
The bride shook her head once. "I want it gone. Now."
That was the moment the staffer did what he was told. He stepped behind me and said, soft, "Miss, can you stand for me? Just for a sec?"
Maya was already shifting her weight to take more of mine. "I've got you," she whispered to me. "On three. Just to your feet, okay?"
I nodded. My mouth was too dry to answer. I put my hands on the armrests and pushed. Maya pulled up from my upper arm and the staffer pulled the chair back at the same time, just enough that I had to commit to standing or fall.
I got to my feet. For a half second I thought I had it. The polished floor was cold under my shoes. The chandeliers swam a little and then steadied.
Then my knees buckled backward, not forward. Not dramatic. Just a give, like the signal from my legs didn't arrive on time. A small, ugly gasp came out of me.
Maya caught me under both arms before I went down. She was smaller than me but she locked her elbows and took my weight against her shoulder. The light blue one-shoulder dress strap cut into her skin with the strain. The staffer lunged and got a hand under my other arm.
"Got her, got her," Maya said, breathing hard. She wasn't talking to the bride.
I wasn't on the floor. I wasn't on the chair either. I was suspended between Maya and that kid, feet barely under me, bandana now definitely crooked, trying to find the floor with my shoes.
The photographer took a half step back. He lowered his camera further, deliberately, and let it hang. "Okay, we're done," he said to no one in particular, but he looked at the bride when he said it. "Let's take five. Everyone take five."
The bride finally looked at me directly. Her eyes moved slow, the way they had in the video moment, from my face down to my knees that wouldn't lock, then back up. Her lips were pursed. She didn't reach out.
"You said you could be here for this," she said to me. It wasn't shouted. It was flattened, like she was trying to keep it private and failing. "You said you could stand for photos."
I tried to answer. I swallowed. "I thought I could," I said. My voice was thin. I hated how it sounded.
Maya adjusted her hold, trying to keep me upright without hauling at my arm too hard. "She stood," she said to the bride, over my head like I wasn't there. "She did. She needs the chair back."
The staff kid was still holding me, eyes wide, waiting for an instruction that didn't come. The chair was now two feet behind us, empty, gold shining under the warm lights. A white floral arrangement on the table beside it blurred in my vision.
I understood it then, all at once and without words. She would rather I swayed in the middle of her dance floor, held up by someone else, risking a real fall in front of everyone, than let a single photo show me sitting while the other bridesmaids stood. The image mattered more than whether I stayed upright. The doubt I'd been pushing away since the shattered stemware snapped into something harder. It wasn't about me being a distraction. It was about me being visible on her terms or not at all.
May you like
The photographer had turned slightly away, talking into his radio low. "Need water up front," he said. "And let's hold the formal lineup."
The bride's arms stayed crossed. She stared at the empty chair, frustrated, not at me. The room was waiting for her to decide what to do with me standing there, barely standing, with nothing to sit on.
