She let out with a low whistle. “Wow. That is some ring. Your man has good taste.”
I reclaimed my hand and looked down at the shiny, foreign object on it. I still hadn’t gotten used to the feeling of it on my finger, the way that it would tangle in my hair when I ran a hand over my scalp, or the way its sparkle still managed to catch me off guard. I took a moment to stare at the alien entity on my left hand, trying to take in everything about it, from the large, round center stone... to the teensy tiny black dot at the very center of it.
Huh. I hadn’t noticed that before.
It was a beautiful ring and the flaw was miniscule, really. But for some reason, my eyes managed to zero in on it until I could see nothing else but that one, stupid speck. I thought about pointing it out to Lisa, but she’d already launched into a Q and A.
“So, what are our plans for the wedding?”
Of course Lis would refer to the wedding planning as ‘ours’. It went without saying that she’d be my Maid—er, Matron—of Honor. I bit my lip at her across the table and replied, “Um, I hadn’t really thought about it yet. I guess we’ll have it somewhere in Jersey, right?”
“Don’t ask me! It’s your wedding, dopey. Haven’t you even thought about that at all?”
I remembered Lisa’s wedding from a few years before. The ceremony was a beautiful but simple affair at the Redys’ church, but the reception took place in a much more elaborate setting down in West Orange.
She’d driven me crazy with every detail about the big day, and I spent less time helping her plan and more time trying to chill her the hell out. We’d visited practically every reception hall in New Jersey over a two-week period, trying to find the place with the highest ceilings (in order to accommodate Pick’s NBA buddies) and the prettiest grounds (in order to accommodate Lisa’s “vision”).
Oh. And a staircase. It was crucial to have a flipping staircase for the pictures.
She must have tried on fifty dresses before narrowing her choice down to the ultimate victor (It had to be cream. Not off-white, not beige, cream), and I must have eaten forty thousand calories worth of cake samples. Thankfully, the silver bridesmaid gowns we had to wear were corset-style. Not very comfortable, but they matched Lisa’s ideal of “traditionally modern”, and made me look even skinnier than I did pre-cake.
And the flowers. I swear, I’d never seen so many flowers in my entire life! Should you ever find yourself in a life-or-death situation where it is absolutely imperative to make the distinction between “dusty rose” and “fairy pink”… call Lisa. She’s the girl for the job.
As amazing as Lisa and Pickford’s wedding was, I didn’t think I wanted anything that involved.
But still. I guess I should have figured that at least some forethought would be expected of me before walking down that aisle.
“Well, sort of. Not really, I guess.” I laughed and added, “We just got engaged four days ago! Guess I’m just not the super-planner you are, Bridezilla.”
“I was not a bridezilla!”
I started to crack up, watching Lisa getting all defensive. “You’re right. Bridezilla’s probably too harsh. You were more like Princess Di on acid.”
Our waiter came out to take our order even though neither one of us had even cracked open a menu. Not that it mattered. Lisa always got the Nicoise Salad—without anchovies—and I always got the Cobb.
After our server took his leave, I sank back into my deck chair, looking out over the lake. It really was a beautiful day-bright and clear and breezy; a nice departure from the perpetually grey and noisy city that I called home. Lisa knew how much I enjoyed some quiet every now and then—even if she rarely respected that aspiration—so it was a good thing that she’d cracked open her newspaper instead of blabbering my ear off. Silence was easier to obtain when she was engrossed with the Style section.
I decided to join her, reaching a hand across the table and asking, “Hey, gimme the crossword, will ya?”
Lisa rifled through the paper as I dug around in my purse for a pencil. She handed it over and went back to her article, and I displayed some rudimentary origami skills, getting the page folded just the right way for optimal cruciverbalism...
...when right there on Page Six was a picture of none other than my old high school boyfriend, Trip Wilmington.
I immediately gasped at the sight of him, but it’s not as though I hadn’t experienced that scenario before. It seemed he’d been popping up sporadically in those days. I would pick up the occasional copy of People, or Entertainment Weekly, or Us, and every now and again find his gorgeous mug staring back at me from the pages. But mainly, I encountered him on movie screens, and most recently, he’d invaded my home via my dream.