Before the wedding, Diana mailed a list of “bridesmaid dos and don’ts” to the girls. They included tips such as “Don’t drink too much! No one likes a drunk bridesmaid.” And “Don’t expect to be anywhere close to the center of attention…this isn’t your day!” And “Don’t tan before the wedding! You don’t want to risk a burn!” And “Do ask the bride how she’s feeling and offer emotional support.”
Colleen thought this list was the funniest thing she’d ever seen and kept it for years. At the wedding, Colleen got so drunk she fell and ripped her dress. And my best friend from childhood, Deborah Long, used her maid of honor speech to talk about how she was more than ready for her own boyfriend to propose. And when I walked down the stairs in my wedding dress for the first time, my single aunt Bit gasped and said, “Good God, you’re just a baby.” Then later, she whispered to me, “If you don’t want to go through with this, you don’t have to.” Diana was probably mortified, but none of these things bothered me. I thought the whole day was perfect.
On the day of the wedding, Matt and I agreed we wouldn’t see each other before the ceremony. But we met at a doorway, and stood on opposite sides with the wall between us, reaching around to hand each other our wedding presents. He gave me diamond earrings and I gave him a watch. The photographer took a picture of us, holding hands through the doorway, still hidden from each other. It is one of the most ridiculous pictures I’ve ever seen.
—
Years later, Colleen told me that my marriage to Matt was a result of terrorism. When she said this, we were at her apartment, lying on the couch and eating licorice out of a giant plastic container. I stopped mid-bite, squinted my eyes at her, and waited for her to explain.
“You know,” she said, and took a bite of her Red Vine, “everyone was afraid they were going to die then. So many people had died that it was all anyone could think about. People were looking for anything that made them happy, and they moved fast, like there wasn’t a lot of time left.”
I wanted to defend my marriage, tell her that our relationship was strong and good and I would have fallen in love with Matt no matter what was happening in the world. But then I thought about what it had been like that month, how Julie was always in bed and how anytime we turned on the TV we heard about survivors and victims and babies being born who would never know their fathers. I thought about how claustrophobic it was in the apartment, and how from the moment Matt and I met, it felt like we were racing toward something, so eager to get to the finish line.
Every so often, it worried me to think that Colleen was right, that we’d gotten married because we were scared. But then I thought about Matt in those pants covered with little dogs, the way he blushed when Colleen teased him, and I figured there were worse ways to end up with someone.
Chapter 3
A few days after my disastrous trip to the grocery store, we were supposed to go to dinner at Matt’s parents’ house. This wasn’t unusual—we were expected every Sunday—but part of me hoped that just this once we could get out of it, that maybe Matt would agree to cancel.
“I’m sure they’ll understand if we tell them we need to unpack,” I said that afternoon. “And we have food now. We can make a real dinner.”
“I already told them we were coming,” Matt said.
“I could even make sloppy joes,” I said. It was a little desperate to try to bribe Matt with his favorite meal, but I wanted nothing more than to curl up and have a quiet dinner. For as long as we’d known each other, Sunday nights were a time we spent together, actually cooking instead of ordering takeout, trying out complicated and involved recipes. When The Sopranos were on, we religiously made large pasta dishes and ate in front of the TV. Now Sunday nights were no longer ours. When I’d mentioned that we were never going to be able to watch 60 Minutes again, Matt just said we could DVR it.
“We’ll do sloppy joes another night,” Matt said. He reached out and pulled me onto his lap, put his face in my neck until I laughed and said, “Your loss.”
—
It honestly didn’t occur to me that moving to DC would mean seeing Matt’s family all the time. Sure, I figured we’d see them more. Maybe we’d meet for dinner every few weeks—they lived in Maryland, about forty minutes outside of DC, just far enough away to be truly inconvenient. But looking back, it’s clear that I was delusional, that I had underestimated the power of the Kellys.