Chapter 6
The ballroom at the country club smelled like garden roses and butter. Strings of lights had been wrapped around every beam, and every table had a low vase of white roses that matched the one I'd left on the patterned rug upstairs. My veil had been re-pinned. Someone had brushed the rug lint off the back of my dress.
I sat at the head table with my hands folded in my lap because I didn't know what else to do with them. The DJ called for speeches and my husband stood up. He'd changed his shirt or straightened it, I couldn't tell. He looked calm again, the way he had before the bedroom door closed.
He tapped his knife against his champagne glass and the room went quiet.
"Thank you all for being here," he said. He smiled wide, the practiced one he used for photos. "I know you've all noticed my beautiful bride was a little late getting down here. What can I say, she wanted to make an entrance."
A soft laugh moved through the tables.
"She got tangled in that veil, got a little faint, took a little trip right onto the carpet. You know how she is. Clumsy when she's nervous." He looked down at me and his hand found my shoulder. His fingers pressed just enough to hold me in place. "I told her, honey, you don't have to fall for me, you already married me."
More laughter, louder this time. A couple of the groomsmen cheered. I felt the laugh track roll over me and settle. I tried to smile. My scalp throbbed where he'd gripped my hair. Each time I moved my head to nod, the pain pulled sharp from the crown down to the base of my neck.
"But she's okay, we're okay, and we're so happy you all stuck around for the party," he said. "To my wife."
He lifted his glass. Everyone lifted theirs. I lifted mine and didn't drink.
From two chairs down, his mother stood. Her burgundy lace caught the light. Her pearls sat perfect against her collar. She didn't wait to be handed the microphone.
"He's right, of course," she said, her voice warm and even. "These old houses, those thick rugs. That veil is so long and lovely, but it's a hazard. I told her, sweetheart, let's get you some air, some water. It happens to brides every summer. Low blood sugar, nerves. We got her fixed right up."
She smiled at me. It was tight at the corners, her eyes not moving. It was the same smile she'd given him in the doorway when she stepped between us.
"She's a strong girl," she went on. "We're just so blessed to have her in the family."
The room clapped. Someone said "aww." I felt every eye confirm the story at once. Faint. Trip. Veil. Nerves. Four words and the fifteen seconds upstairs disappeared under them.
The photographer came around before the salads arrived. "Bridal portrait, just the two of you, big smiles!" he called. My husband pulled my chair back and put his arm around my waist for the picture. His hand spread flat against my lace.
"Smile, babe," he whispered against my ear, his mouth still smiling for the camera.
I did. The flash popped. The pain shot across my scalp again and my eyes watered. I blinked and kept smiling through the next flash and the next. The photographer said, "Beautiful, hold that," and I held it until my cheeks ached.
Dinner was served. I cut my chicken and moved it around the plate. At the table to our left, a woman I'd known from college leaned over and whispered, "You okay? You looked so pale." Before I could answer, his mother laughed lightly and said, "She's just overwhelmed, aren't you, honey?" and turned the woman's attention to the centerpiece.
Servers moved between tables with trays. One of them, a young woman in a black vest with her hair pulled back, stopped beside me to refill my water glass. She set the glass down and her hand brushed the edge of my plate. Under the folded napkin she'd placed beside my fork, something stiff caught my finger.
I didn't look right away. I kept my hand on the napkin, kept nodding at a groomsman who was telling a story about golf. When the server moved away, I slid the napkin into my lap and opened it.
A small white card, the kind the catering staff used to label the bar. On it, in quick ballpoint, a phone number. Ten digits. No name. Under it, three words: "I saw. Text me."
My breath caught and I folded the napkin back over it fast. I pressed my palm flat against it in my lap so it wouldn't slip. The card was warm from her hand.
My husband was laughing at the head table now, telling another story about our honeymoon plans. His mother rested her hand on his forearm and beamed at the guests. The false story had locked into place like a lid. Clumsy bride, fainted, tripped. Everyone had heard it twice now, and they'd repeat it on the way home because it was easier.
May you like
I kept smiling. The card pressed against my thigh under the napkin. My scalp burned. I didn't correct a word he said.
I just held onto the number and waited for a moment when no one was watching me.
