“Do you think I should wear white? My mom is worried about what it implies about my virginity.” That had been abandoned at seventeen, their last year in high school, to a boy named Alex Heard, whose middle name was, incredibly, Elvis. He had a baby face and greasy hair and fat fingers and a stupid, halting laugh, but he was not stupid and was not a terrible guy, either. He’d gone to Princeton, moved to California, did something in tech, that’s what people do out in California, that or make movies. It happened during a party at Hannah Cho’s apartment, a Friday night, October 12, actually; Sarah remembers the date, why wouldn’t she. She’d told her mother about it the next day.
“She’s not serious.” Lauren knows that Sarah told Lulu about it. Fifteen years later still can’t quite believe it. “I can’t believe that people still think like that.”
“Lulu’s old-fashioned. But for God’s sake, I’ve been sleeping with Dan for a decade.” Sarah finishes her wine. “Hey, how are your parents?” She hasn’t seen Lauren’s parents in—she can’t think how long. Indeed, she sometimes forgets their very existence. It’s as though her parents live far away, in New Mexico, instead of across the river, in South Orange. Lauren’s mother had introduced herself first, those years ago, as Mrs. Brooks. Sarah had grown up calling grown-ups by their first names, but tripped over that “Isabella.” She could tell that it was an affront of some sort. Anyway, Sarah’s always thought of her as Bella—that’s how Lauren had referred to her, teenage disdain distilled into two bitten-off syllables. Bella says I can’t wear lipstick. Bella says call by nine. Bella says it’s not healthy to be a vegetarian. She was nice, though, Bella, with kind, tired eyes, and a reassuring way of speaking. Sarah can’t picture Lauren’s dad, Mike, quite as clearly, but that’s the way it is with most dads, her own excepted, of course.
“My parents?” Lauren, elbows on the table, tears into the piece of butcher paper that’s meant to serve as her placemat. It makes a small but satisfying sound. “I don’t know. But speaking of parents—can’t you just outsource? Lulu knows how to throw a party.”
“My wedding is too small for Lulu,” Sarah says. “She should be planning an inauguration. A coronation.”
Lauren shakes her head. “Maybe she’s the one who should wear white.” They both laugh.
“So here’s the thing,” Sarah says. Again: Huck’s way of doing things. You need something, you make a call, you ask, though asking and telling are not so far apart. “I’m going to need your help.”
Lauren shrugs. “I’ll help. I’m helpful. First things first, are we going dress shopping and can I try one on, too, or will the salesgirl find this suspicious?”
“You’re the maid of honor; you tell me,” she says. “Anyway, we can pretend it’s a double wedding. We can pretend to be Mormon sisters.”
“I’m not married, are you sure it’s maid? God, that’s such a gay term.”
“Yeah. Maid is unmarried, I think. Matron is married.”
“Shit, you get married and suddenly you turn into a matron?” Lauren frowns.
“Sexy, don’t you think?”
“That’s almost reason enough for me to get married before you do. So I can be a matron of honor. This is my friend Lauren, she’s my matron of honor.”
“So you’re okay with this, right? Your maidly duties?”
“Don’t be dumb,” Lauren says. “You can count on me, I’m equal to the task, whatever. Licking envelopes. Filling bags with rice? Tying cans to your car?”
“I’m just making sure,” Sarah says. “We talked about this but then we never really got into it and now it’s fall already. And you can’t do rice anymore. It doesn’t actually make birds explode, but people think it does, and it’s a bummer to end a wedding with visions of bursting pigeons.”
“Wait, are you trying to tell me I am a bad matron of honor?” Lauren reaches across the table as though to take Sarah’s hand, but doesn’t. “Is this an intervention? Do you not want me as matron?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she says.
“You’re being the asshole. Just tell me what to do. I don’t know about matrimonial custom. Everything I know about weddings comes from sitcoms.”
Sarah remembers the years they lived together in the city. Sarah would handle the bills, and Lauren, in a gesture that approached, but did not achieve, the apologetic, would come home with hundreds of dollars of groceries—repayment not quite in kind. She’s not irresponsible, not exactly, she just has her way of doing these things, and it’s not Sarah’s way. She’s going to have to guide Lauren through this, which is fine, because Sarah wants only help, not to cede all responsibility. “Fine.” It comes out more meanly than she wants it to, so she says it again. “Fine. I guess to start, we should make a list. There’s the dress. There’s a party. Something bachelorettey, but not too, I guess. There’s the hair and makeup. The flowers, the cake. Photographer.”
“I didn’t realize this was going to be such a traditional wedding.”
“I don’t think it’s the worst thing in the world to want some pretty flowers around the day I get married.”