There's Cake in My Future (15 page)

I fall to my knees so that I can vomit into the toilet.

Only nothing comes out. I haven’t eaten since last night. Of course nothing’s coming out.

Still … this nausea can’t be a good sign.

I stare at the toilet water in front of me.

What am I doing?

This isn’t right. A bride is not supposed to hurl right before she walks down the aisle. I know this week hasn’t gone as planned. I know next week is going to be a disaster. But this … this has to be bad.

I hear a knock on the door. “Honey, are you all right?” I hear Mel ask, her voice dripping with concern.

“I’m fine,” I yell through the door. “I just need a second.”

And then I crawl on my knees to the door and turn the lock.

Seventeen

Melissa

It’s been five minutes since I told Mrs. Wickham (aka the church lady) that we’d be down in two. Seema has managed to clean off most of the fire extinguisher goo from her dress and has promised not to try and bash in the door with any more blunt objects.

I look through the keyhole of the bathroom door. It’s an antique door that probably hasn’t been replaced since the church was built in the 1930s. I pull out a bobby pin securing my forties hat to my gelled-down hair. I carefully slip my bobby pin into the lock as I say to Seema, “This is an old lock. I think maybe if I can push down on the…”

Suddenly, a sparkly aquamarine satin high heel four-inch pump whizzes past my face, and Seema successfully kicks down the door. I blink several times, the bobby pin still in my hand. “Or we could just try the approach that will cost us five hundred dollars in repairs.…”

I see Nicole, looking flawless in her gorgeous Monique Lhuillier strapless princess A-line gown in ivory satin. She is breathtaking.

Well, okay, other than the fact that she’s sitting on the toilet, resting her now-shoeless stockinged feet on the dresser across from her, and has an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.

We all have that half second, where no one can think of what to do next.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Nic sighs. “You might as well say it.”

Seema and I exchange a look. Neither of us knows what to say.

Seema goes first. “How come Melissa gets the hot surfer dude for an usher and I get an eighty-year-old who keeps telling me I look like, and I quote, ‘That girl with the scar on her face from
Slumdog Millionaire
’?”

Nic looks at both of us for a moment. Rather than answer Seema’s question, she changes the subject. “Do you realize that, as of today, I will never get to date Prince William?”

Seema and I exchange another look. What is she talking about?

Seema shrugs. “Well, you’ll never have to date a Jonas brother either, so it all evens out.”

As Seema grabs a towel from the rack to wipe off more fire extinguisher slime, I walk over to Nic and yank the cigarette out of her mouth. “Honey, you don’t smoke.”

“Not now,” Nic says as she watches me throw the cigarette into a dainty lacy trash can. “But, as this week has clearly shown, nothing in my life is going as planned. Maybe I should take it up to lose weight.”

“Yup. Nothin’ drops those pounds quite like chemotherapy,” Seema quips. She shows me the towel with more white glop from the extinguisher. “What is this stuff made out of? Should I be breathing it?”

“You’ll be fine,” I tell her as I lift Nic’s left foot, and put her five-inch satin heel back on. “How on earth are you ever going to walk in these?”

“I have white ballet slippers for later,” Nic answers me. “When I was a preteen, I had a huge crush on Luke Perry. But then, as the years went on, I always kind of wondered about Prince William. And now, today, I’m admitting to the world that I will never date either Prince William or Luke Perry.”

Seema looks at Nic in disgust for a moment, then turns to the mirror to examine the mess on her dress. “Luke Perry? My God, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Oh, and who did you like when you were twelve?” Nic asks. “Jason Priestley?”

“Will Smith,” Seema answers. “And yes, I know: rumored Scientologist. But have you seen him in
Bad Boys,
runnin’ with his shirt off? Paws up, baby!”

As I lift Nic’s right foot to put on her other insanely high heel, she says to Seema, “Fine. Then you’re never dating Will Smith.”

“Shocking as it may seem, I’ve come to terms with that…”

“Well I haven’t…”

“Well he’s married to Jada Pinkett, so you’re gonna have to.”

“I liked Paul Reiser,” I say, eager to get into the conversation (although I don’t know why).

Both of them turn to me, dull eyed.

“What?” I ask defensively. “A girl can’t like a guy with a sense of humor?”

Nic deadpans, “Shudder, shudder…”

“Cringe, cringe,” Seema finishes while she continues to clean up. “Man, you were even a nerd at twelve.”

I decide to ignore Seema’s dig, and return my attention to Nic. I rub her arm sympathetically. “Honey, what are you saying? You want to hold out for Luke Perry?”

“No. I just … I thought finding my Prince Charming was going to be different than this. I thought it would be wildly romantic all the time. I didn’t think everything was going to be this hard this soon, and require so much compromise so early on.” Nic sighs. “I love Jason so much. But I don’t think I should marry him. I just … I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

Before I can talk Nic off the proverbial ledge, Seema states authoritatively, “I’m on it!” then starts to march out of the bathroom.

I grab Seema’s arm. “What do you mean you’re ‘on it’? What are you on?”

“Right now, just a little champagne,” Seema tells me. “I’m holding, though. What do you need?”

“I need you to tell her she’s being ridiculous!” I instruct Seema. “I need you to tell her that Jason is amazing, and that most of us would kill for a chance at happiness like the one she currently wants to throw away.”

“That’s not my job,” Seema states unequivocally. “I’m the maid of honor. My job is to make sure that her Uncle Ted doesn’t hit the bar too many times before his toast, that her father doesn’t come within ten feet of her mother, and that if she decides she can’t get married to hail her a cab and not ask questions.”

We hear a knock on the outer door that leads to the hallway.

A moment of silence as we exchange looks of panic.

Seema wails, “I’m never going to be the one in the white dress either!”

“It’s just us,” Nic’s soon-to-be stepdaughter Megan says in a bored tone through the door. “Can you let us in?”

We turn to Nic, looking for an answer.

Nic stands up, walks out of the bathroom, through the bridal suite, and over to the outer door. She unlocks it, and lets Malika and Megan walk in.

They look achingly adorable in their white dresses with satin teal (electric blue?) bows around their waists, carrying little baby roses in small bouquets.

Nic melts. “You look gorgeous. Both of you.”

Malika flashes us a proud grin. Megan just glares at her possibly soon-to-be stepmother.

“What the Hell is going on?” Megan asks Nic.

“Language,” Nic reminds her.

“Fine,” Megan concedes. “What the fuck is going on?”

Nic looks over to us for inspiration, although I’m not sure why. We’re single, one of our dresses is covered in the remnants of fire extinguisher slime, and we’re both convinced she’s crazy. How much help are we going to be?

Nic sighs. She doesn’t know what to say. She takes a knee to be at eye level with Megan, and begins. “Girls, you’re too young to understand this now, but relationships are complicated. It’s nothing that you did, I promise, but I—”

“Oh dude!” Megan declares. “You’re too old for cold feet drama. You’re never gonna do better than Dad. Suck it up, grow a pair, and let’s go!”

With that, Megan turns on her heel and marches out of the room. Malika flashes her eyes toward Nic apologetically. “You look really pretty,” she says, then runs out the door to follow her sister.

Nic blinks several times in stunned silence. She stands up, takes a deep breath, then turns to us. “She’s right. I’m ready.”

Nic grabs her bridal bouquet from the side table and walks out of the room, into the hallway, and onto the next phase of her life.

I quickly grab both bridesmaids’ bouquets as Seema tells me, “She’s a fucking lunatic.”

“Right,” I say quickly, handing Seema her bouquet and shepherding her out the door. “Go, go, go. Before she gives it any more thought.”

Eighteen

Seema

The ceremony was going off without a hitch.

I was a little worried about Nic for the first few minutes after we busted her out of the bathroom, but she absolutely glowed as she walked down the aisle. And now the priest is done with his minisermon on marriage and has just begun with the “Dearly Beloved” part. Nic and Jason are stealing shy glances back and forth and looking like what they are—made for each other.

I glance over to see Scott, in a pew about halfway back, between a little old lady in a pink wool suit and one of the girls from the bridal shower. I keep glancing back to check him out.

He is wearing a tuxedo and looking the best I’ve ever seen him.

Ah, very debonair. Very James Bond. Very … wait … who the Hell is that girl? Because she totally looks like she’s flirting with him! Why that little Jezebel! And in a church, of all places!

Nic smiles at me as she hands me her bouquet.

Right. Pay attention to the wedding. This is a beautiful moment for one of my best friends, not to mention a crucial one. I should not be thinking about my current lust.

They exchange their vows, which they’ve written themselves. This is usually the part of the wedding that makes me want to gag. Do I really need to hear that Nic has pink fuzzy bunny slippers or that Jason’s favorite soup is split pea?

But it’s actually kind of funny, and includes vows such as Nic’s “And I promise to never use your razor.”

I wonder what Scott’s favorite soup is. I think he ordered clam chowder once at this divey beach restaurant we went to. I look over to see the little slut leaning over and putting her hand on Scott’s knee.

Scott smiles and points to the front of the church, clearly telling her to pay attention.

Good.

I think. Unless it was a coy, “Pay attention to the ceremony. You had me at cleavage.”

He waves to me. I smile girlishly and try to give a little wave back.

Jason and Nic recite their final
I do
s and exchange rings.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest tells them. “You may kiss your bride.”

I can see Jason smiling wide as he leans in to kiss Nic. She throws her arms around him and plants a long kiss on him. Then she takes her bouquet back from me and triumphantly walks down the aisle with her husband.

When the ceremony is over, I take the arm of my eighty-something companion and walk down the aisle after Jason and Nic.

I smile at Scott as I pass him. He gives me a wink and mouths, “You look gorgeous.”

I can’t help it. I smile shyly, then mouth, “So do you.”

He makes a point of smiling as he puts his hands on his heart to show me how much he likes my compliment.

*   *   *

We in the wedding party spend about an hour having our pictures taken, then we take a limo over to Shutters, an incredible five-star hotel right on Santa Monica Beach. Nic had opted not to have us in the receiving line. (Yay! Another wedding annoyance of mine is having to greet three hundred people with feigned excitement each time: “Hi! How are you?” “Hi! You look great, what have you had done?!” “No dear, it’ll be your turn soon, I can feel it.”)

Mel and I walk into the cocktail area, just outside of the hotel’s Grand Salon. The area has been decorated to look like a glam nightclub: very sexy, very modern. Guests have been here for a while, so the party is in full swing.

“How bad do you think the fire extinguisher residue is?” I ask Mel.

“It really just looks like you spilled some water on your dress,” Mel lies. “I’m sure no one will even notice.”

Scott walks over to us, holding a silver tray filled with champagne flutes. He gives a slight bow and presents us with the tray. “Ladies.”

“Thank you,” I say, as Mel and I each take a glass. “How did you snag a whole tray?”

“The head of catering thought I was one of the waiters,” he says as he puts down the tray and takes a glass for himself. “And I’m going to kill you for making me wear this tuxedo.”

I bend my knees slightly and whine, “Oh, but you look so good!”

He bends his knees, and answers me in my same pleading tone, “I look like a waiter!” Then he returns to his normal voice. “No one else is wearing a tuxedo, except the groom and his party. The guests are all in suits!”

“Then they didn’t pay attention to the invitation, which clearly stated, ‘Black Tie Optional.’ ”

“You didn’t tell me that!” Scott says, a bit jokingly. “You said the invitation said, ‘Black Tie.’ ”

“I said, ‘Black Tie Optional,’ which means a proper guest dons a tuxedo.”

“Optional. Key word there, Singh. Optional.”

“ ‘Optional’ means the bride wants you in a tuxedo, but doesn’t want to be rude and demand it of her guests,” I insist.

“I can have you out of that thing in three minutes flat,” Mel almost challenges him.

We both turn to her. Scott looks amused. I am not. I glare at her.

“Sorry,” Mel says, taking another sip of champagne. “Must be the booze talking.”

“You’ve had one sip,” I point out.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I know it’s completely inappropriate, but weddings make me horny.”

“That is a most excellent mating call,” Scott says.

“Time to get over Fred by getting under a wedding guest,” Mel declares.

“Good point,” Scott agrees. “You know what they say—weddings beget weddings.”

“I’m sorry?” I say.

“Weddings beget weddings. You know, like in the Bible: ‘Abraham begat Isaac’ and ‘Isaac begat Greg.’ Weddings beget weddings.” Scott motions to the rest of the room with his champagne flute. “Everyone’s in a romantic mood, and hopeful about the future. The women are looking beautiful. The men are horny, but vetted…”