“Yep.”
“I like it,” he said. “Now get over here.”
I walked into his open arms. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Bailey’s turn.”
“Oh my God, Bailey! Move it!” Nicki smacked my hand away from my head, then resumed curling my hair.
“I’m not sure about this one,” I said, pointing to a less-than-springy curl.
“I swear to God, if you go all OCD on me . . .”
“Girls? Stop,” Mom chided. “Nicki? Do your best. Bailey? This is what you get for not hiring a hairstylist.”
I huffed. “Nicki said she was a ‘miracle worker’ with the curling iron.”
“I am!” Nicki replied. “I will fix the curl. Just stop touching your hair. In fact, put your hands in your lap.”
I shook my head. “I need champagne.”
“Erica, will you get Bailey a glass of champagne, please?” Mom asked. It wasn’t her usual obligatory “please” attached to the end of that command. In fact, it didn’t even sound like a command. It was an actual question that offered options: you can do it, don’t do it, whatever. I was impressed.
Erica kissed my cheek, then handed me the champagne flute.
“You only get one because we don’t want you stumbling in the sand,” she said.
“Understood.”
“And we don’t want you having to go pee in the middle of the ceremony,” she added.
“Understood.”
“And we already put blush on your face, so we don’t need you looking like a cherry.”
“Understood.”
Erica grinned. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m nervous,” I confessed.
“All brides feel that way on their wedding day,” Mom said.
“I didn’t,” Nicki noted, and Erica and I giggled.
“All brides but Nicki feel that way on their wedding day,” Mom revised.
“Your mom’s right,” Erica said. “It’s natural to have the jitters. But you and Reece live together. There’s nothing that changes except your names on a license. Think of it that way and take deep breaths.”
I breathed deeply and watched as Nicki fixed the curl I didn’t like. She sprayed my hair all over, waited a minute, and then ran her fingers through it, breaking up the ringlets.
“I can’t promise you that this’ll last through the entire ceremony,” she said. “The wind and all.”
“I don’t care,” I replied. “As long as he can see me before I get all disheveled.”
I really wasn’t a fussy bride. I let Nicki choose my dress. I put Erica in charge of the bridesmaids dresses. Erica was my matron of honor; Nicki, my only bridesmaid. That proved a tiny hiccup in the wedding party. Reece wanted Christopher, Camden, and Noah included, but I didn’t have enough girls. And I wasn’t asking any of my “surface” friends because that’s bunk. You don’t ask “surface” friends to be in your wedding.
“This is bullshit,” Camden said over lunch several months back. I explained my problem and asked if he’d like to be an usher.
“Camden, you’re a guy. What do you care?”
“I’m Reece’s family, Bailey. Family! I’m the freakin’ best man!”
“Hold up,” Christopher chimed in. “I thought I was the best man.”
“Are you crazy?” Camden said.
Reece sighed and took a huge chunk out of his burger.
“He grew up with me!”
“He works with me!”
“Shut up!” I screamed, and patrons turned in our direction. “I don’t have enough friends, apparently, so here’s the deal: Camden, you’ll be best man—”
“WHAT?!” Christopher cried.
“And Chris, you can walk me down the aisle.”
His mouth dropped open. “Really?”
I nodded.
“You don’t want your uncle or somebody to do that?”
I shook my head. “I want my surf buddy to.”
“You wanna do it up in style? Ride a wave in together?”
I laughed. “Hell no! Though that is kinda cute.”
Reece sighed relief. “Are we all happy now? Because I’m this close to eloping.” He held up his thumb and forefinger millimeters apart.
“We cool,” Christopher said, and then muttered, “I got the better job anyway.”
In another half-hour I was all dressed up and ready to go. I wore a strapless ivory gown with a high-low hemline. I thought it was perfect for a beach wedding. Nothing dragging in the sand. The gown was simple—its only adornment was a band of beads and pearls that wrapped my chest, giving me the illusion of slightly larger breasts. I liked it. I thought Reece would, too. I decided to go barefoot for the ceremony, my toenails painted a cheery fuchsia. Nicki cried when I showed her. I did it to include a little part of her ceremony in mine. I wore one of those short veils with the netting that hugs your face close. It was decorated with the same beads and pearls featured on my dress.
Nicki grabbed my reception shoes, and Erica grabbed my second glass of champagne. I begged her and promised I wouldn’t stop the ceremony for a pee break.
“I’m serious, B,” she warned.
We clambered into the car—Mom, Nicki, Erica, and me—and headed to our spot on the beach. I didn’t even think about the event set-up. I figured someone would put chairs out, and if not, well, so what? I didn’t care about perfection. (Yes, I just said that.) I cared about seeing Reece. In fact, as soon as we parked, the urge overwhelmed me. A good urge.
Nicki could see it on my face.
“At least put these on!” she said, holding up my white sparkly flip flops.
But I couldn’t wait. I wouldn’t. And against my mother’s orders that the bride not be seen until she walks down the aisle, I ran across the parking lot barefoot and midway down the slippery bank.
“Reece!” I shouted. “Reece!”
The wedding guests were seated, waiting. Dozens of faces turned in my direction, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over my dress. Some chuckled and whispered to one another.