Something Blue. Pale blue lace panties that matched my bra. Humorously virginal in their innocence and delicate structure.

Something Old. My husband, who would certainly be in attendance. Oops, shit. Ignore my adolescent humor. Hmmm ... something old. My practically vintage Jimmy Choos, bought at an estate sale Brad and I stumbled upon when driving through his neighborhood one day.

Something New. Everything else. My mind spun with the exorbitant bill this wedding must be racking up. Brad had forbid Rebecca to share any details with me regarding cost, but my eyes could easily pick up the details:

Two wedding planners.

The diamond-encrusted ballroom at Fleur De Lis, the only location in town big enough to hold our enormous guest list, while still providing charm and elegance.

A four-tiered wedding cake with custom Tiffany & Co Bride and Groom figurines.

A twelve-piece orchestra for the wedding, two bands for the reception.

A five-course plated dinner with wine pairings for over three hundred guests.

Custom invitations, many sent by tuxedoed courier, to the elite of the elite in the city.

The Favors—mini bottles of Dom Perignon accompanied by gold-leaf boxes of chocolate-covered strawberries.

It had wandered into the land of ridiculous, an opulent show of wealth that would be performed for individuals I barely knew. It would have been, if you subtracted Brad’s family from the equation, my dream wedding. Instead, it felt like I was anchoring myself to Dom Magiano, forever tying my life to his, a partnership with Satan sealed with a kiss and a platinum setting.

Everything had become a countdown, my graduation one small blip in the jewel-encrusted timeline leading up the big day. Little did we know, I would never walk down that rose-covered aisle, that Lohengrin’s wedding march would start, the couture-clad guests would turn, and be met by an empty aisle, no bride in sight. It would be a countdown to disappointment.

♦♦♦

Mom and Dad arrived again, their car loaded to the gills with whoknewwhat, checking back into the Holiday Inn that had held them at Christmas. In between classes and studying, I spent as much time as possible with them. I shopped with Mom, picking out bathing suits and cover-ups for my honeymoon, the location of which only he and Rebecca knew. In the evening, I took walks with Dad through downtown, ducking into odd shops and ice cream parlors, while he did little talking, and I chattered away.

It was refreshing to have a final act in the role of daughter, before the title of wife put me fully in the role of grown up. I sucked up their love, their proud smiles and congratulatory words, and pretended, for a few days, that I wasn’t hiding a hundred secrets under the gorgeous sweep of my wedding gown.

Still, it loomed. The wedding day, the church divided. The thirty-nine wedding invites that still had outstanding RSVPS. A possible collision of suited gangsters and country bumpkins. I dreaded the casual conversations over finger food, the progression into drinking and dancing, the drinking which would loosen tongues, incite tempers, the potential for violence increasing in the midst of elegance. If something could go wrong, it would. There were too many hidden bombs for one not to explode.

AUGUST

Graduation day

Days until wedding: 6

I changed upstairs, selecting simple clothing to wear underneath the robes, and was aware, while pulling on a camisole, that I was exhausted, the last five days of double duty between my parents and finals taking its toll on me. Rebecca had become a full-time stalker, bombarding me constantly with wedding details and reminders. Her follow-through had no bounds—if I was in the shower, using the restroom, or studying for finals, she was there, with a question or demand—just the sight of her causing me anxiety.

I had, during the last week, escaped when I could, to the theatre room with Ben or to the pool or bedroom with Brad. They had both been quiet, allowing me to work out my frustration in silence. Or, in the case of Brad, with moans and gasps.

I picked up pearls, looping them around my neck, watching my face in the mirror, willing my tight face to relax. Wondering, as I did, what was going on downstairs. What my mother was saying to Brad, what pitfalls he was no doubt dodging with ease.

Dealing with the men in my life was so much easier. They were all behaving, content in their roles. It was the women who were being difficult. My mother and Rebecca, who had, after getting along perfectly for eleven months, suddenly found something to argue about. Rebecca, who was now bitching about my mother, bitching about the caterers, bitching about everything and everyone to anyone in earshot. Olivia, who seemed increasingly pissed that I was getting married at all, and Becca, whose sole goal was suddenly the need to create a synchronized dance routine for the wedding party to enter with—a burst of passionate creativity that no one else was on board with.

Somehow, in this last week, the wedding, the joining of our souls, had become about everyone else. Maybe it had been building that way for a while. Maybe that was how everyone’s weddings were . But now, on graduation day, the wedding still six days away, I was ready for everyone to leave. For my parents to pack their bags and head back to Georgia, for Rebecca to return to her office at the firm, for Olivia to get over herself and accept my marriage. Oh, and for Becca to stop breaking into improvised dance numbers, complete with jazz hands and cheery-ass smiles.

I closed the bedroom door, and took a deep breath, willing peace into my body. I lifted the heavy robe, sliding into it and buttoning the front clasps. I pulled on my cords, blue ropes that signified my ranking on the Dean’s List. Then the cap was put on, the archaic indicator of graduation, not improved or fashionized in the last three decades. I smiled in the mirror, an image of peace and academia, proof that reflections could be far from the truth.

There was a knock on the door and my mother’s voice, muffled, came through. “Sweetheart, Becca and Olivia just pulled in.”

“Okay, I’m coming,” I called out. Grabbing my purse, I pasted a smile on my face and opened the door.

♥♥♥

Graduation. I could feel the sweat underneath my knees. The guy to my right twitched his knee in a way that made my chair vibrate, and I fought the urge to reach over and still it. It had been almost three hours, and I had reached a new low in the possible levels of boredom. There were four thousand names, four thousand souls packed into this civic center, four thousand bored, fidgety coeds who were regretting the decision to attend this event. The announcer’s voice droned on and more black robes crossed the stage. No streakers, no somersaults across the stage. Nothing to break up the monotony.

Then, the voice stopped, my ears perking up at the silence, an audible sigh of relief rolling through the audience. I reached for my diploma, noting that freedom was close, the president making only a brief closing statement before concluding the event. Celebration. We threw our caps, a sea of black rising and then raining down. Then, pure bedlam erupted. Everyone moving in different directions, anxious for release, tripping over folding chairs and climbing over rows in a mad rush for the door. My cell rang, vibrating against my side, but the crush of bodies didn’t allow me to stop and reach for it. The room was too loud anyway. I needed to get outside and then I could check my phone.

When I finally escaped, my feet hitting concrete, the summer heat and humidity caused my clothes to stick against my skin, sweat dripping down my lower back. I moved with the crowd, headed for the parking lot, looking for and finding Brad and my parents under the shade of a large palm tree. His eyes were scanning, worry on his face, and I waved to catch his eye.