“IT’S YOUR WEDDING DAY!” I yell as soon as I kick the door open and step into the bridal suite, finding my best friend lounging on the couch in her adorable white silk robe.
Stacy’s pretty blue eyes light up, and she jumps onto a chair, raises her glass of champagne into the air, and repeats my battle cry. “IT’S MY WEDDING DAY!” We will paint our faces in the traditional wedding war paint of soft-pink lips, smoky eyes, and softly penciled-in brows.
The rest of the bridal party hoots and hollers, and it’s then that I realize the bottle of wine under my arm was not at all necessary. I should have brought coffee instead. Empty shot glasses are lying haphazardly around the room, and these wild bridesmaids are hammered already. How? I thought I was early!
Stacy notices my concerned look and crinkles her nose, hops down from the chair, and comes to help me unload my wedding day ammunition. “Yeah, they apparently got here at, like, eight o’clock this morning and have been partying this whole time.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shakes her head. “Drunk as skunks.”
I immediately start making my way around the room and extracting the various alcoholic beverages from everyone’s hands. They are wearing pink silk robes, and because of the way they are all gaping open, I wonder why they even bothered putting them on in the first place.
Stacy’s expression says she regrets having these girls in her wedding party. She’s barely seen them since graduating from college but thought it would be a nice idea to have her old sorority sisters stand up with her on her wedding day. Now, it looks like they’ll be doing well to be able to stand on their feet at all.
They all groan and call me eighteen different versions of Fun Sucker when I confiscate their beverages, but I don’t care. My goal is to protect Stacy today, and if that means babysitting seven drunk party girls all day, then so be it.
We’re going to need reinforcements, though. As much as I don’t want to, I know what I have to do. Or rather, who I have to text.
June: Hi. Sooooo any chance you don’t hate me too much and would be willing to bring copious amounts of coffee up to the church? I have seven sorority sisters to sober up in five hours.
I wait for a response, not entirely expecting one, but then my phone buzzes.
Ryan: You damn well know I don’t hate you. I’ll be there in a few minutes.
My heart flutters, and I tell it to chill out.
“Coffee is on the way,” I say to Stacy, hoping to ease the worry lines from around her eyes a little.
She wraps me up in one of her famous hugs that I will miss more than the green jumper I brought to stuff in her luggage. “Thanks, Junie.”
I squeeze her back and tell my tear ducts they better get themselves under control because there is no time for meltdowns.
“Oh! I have something for you.” She lets go of me to reach into an oversize tote bag, pulling out a manila envelope. I secretly hope it’s a scrapbook filled with all our best memories, but I don’t tell her because I’m cool and supposed to think scrapbooks are corny. Disappointment floods me when I open it and find a stack of businessy-looking papers.
She taps the envelope, and all the sounds of the rowdy room fade away. “These are all the offers for the bakery. They all seem like good candidates, but I’m leaving it completely up to you to choose since you’re the one who will be stuck with them.”
“And because you’ll be in Mexico for the next two weeks before moving to California.”
“And that.”
“So basically, you’re just making me do your dirty work,” I say, because joking is the only thing I can do right now to keep myself from dissolving into a salty puddle of tears.
Stacy knows. She smiles softly and puts a hand on either side of my face before smooshing my cheeks together. “You’ll make the right choice. I know it.” She lets go of my face to smack my butt as she passes. All I can think about is my conversation with Ryan last night and the mix of hope and fear it spiked in me. It’s all I could think about as I went to bed.
Slowly, the sounds of squealing bridesmaids and Justin Timberlake reenter my consciousness, and I turn around to find Stacy tossing me a pretty silk robe. The bridesmaids catcall and taunt me to strip my clothes off. Somewhere, Ms. Dorothy is proud of them.
“Uh, I think I’d rather change in the bathroom.” If it were just Stacy, I’d be fine. But I have enough self-awareness to know my body image is fragile and healing lately, and I don’t totally trust whatever drunken words will come out of these women’s mouths.
“Need me to come with you?” Stacy asks.
I point to the slippers I brought her. “No, you need to slip your feet into those little slices of paradise and relax. I’ll be right back.”
I head down the long church hallway to the women’s bathroom and, once inside, choose the first stall of the row. No more middles for me. Although the sanctuary of the church is newly remodeled and looks beautiful, this bathroom appears as though it’s been neglected since the days of prehistoric life. I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been cleaned since then either.
I slip into the stall and carefully drape the fine silk robe over the door while I change out of my clothes. Once I’ve stripped down and hung my clothes over the door beside the robe, I reach for the pink silk fabric, and like a magic trick, it slips off the other side and disappears before my very eyes. There’s nothing I hate more than having magic forced on me.
For a split second, I worry that my robe has landed on the gross floor and I’ll catch something truly disgusting when I put it on. Then I hear giggles followed by another disappearing act: my clothes.
Someone—the ringleader, Carly, I’m assuming—very maturely shouts, “Time to loosen up, Fun Sucker!”
They hightail it out of the bathroom as if they expect me to chase them like we’re back in a college dormitory and I have water balloons stuffed in my bra, ready for a prank war at all times.
Fact: People stuck in their college days are more annoying than ingrown hairs.
I sigh and can’t help but wonder what events in my life have led me back to this place of being half-naked in a stall twice in one week. Oh, AND I’m phoneless because it was in my jeans pocket. So, great. Just great.
I have no other choice but to leave this stall in my bra and panties and walk as quickly as I can back to the bridal suite, where, instead of holding each woman down to Sharpie something mean on their faces like my gut insists, I will say Ha ha, very funny! and then funnel coffee down their throats for the rest of the afternoon. I know. #maidofhonorgoals.
The gross cream tile is cold and sticky against my bare feet as I inch my way toward the door. The air feels extra chilly now, and I’m almost certain it’s like this because the church officials didn’t anticipate needing to make the temperature more accommodating for a woman walking around nearly naked.
On my way to the door, I stop by the paper towel dispenser and crank out a long strand of stiff brown paper and begin wrapping it around my body, mummy style. It’s not doing much in the coverage department, and I have to walk like I’m wearing a mermaid fin, but at least it’s better than nothing.
I crack open the bathroom door and peer down the hallway in both directions, verifying that the coast is clear. When I step out, the hallway seems to grow in length, but I can see the bridal suite at the far end of the hall and am already relaxing knowing that no one will see me like this.
Except, when I’m halfway to my end goal and clutching the brown paper tightly against my bare skin, I hear a door open behind me. I whip around to see blinding light spilling around a tall form. If I were wearing a beautiful dress, there would be a choir of angels singing behind the imposing male figure. But I’m wearing brown paper towels, so instead, the only music my mind plays is the classic dum dum dum.
The door shuts, the light disappears, and I’m able to see that RYAN IS STANDING THERE HOLDING COFFEE AND I’M NAKED! Well, not naked. I’m wearing a slip made of archaic bathroom paper.
Instinctively, I let out a little scream and press the paper tighter to me, hoping none of it gives way suddenly. Ryan does not look away. He’s fully clothed (which is the normal look for most people in a church) and staring at me. But he’s not just normally clothed; he’s doubly clothed. A ridiculously handsome navy suit jacket wraps around his shoulders, and a black button-down shirt is tucked into a pair of slacks that matches the jacket. A slim black tie is knotted around his neck, and his hair is already tousled to perfection in a swoopy look you’d see on a model in a magazine.
“Turn around! Stop looking at me!” I whisper-yell because I don’t want to alert the whole building to what’s happening out here. I’m backing away from him and still trying to cover all the parts of skin that the brown paper is not hiding.
He starts walking toward me, and I can see that wolfish smile of his. “I don’t want to.”
“You don’t have a choice!”
“It feels like I do.”
I can’t decide if I want to cry from embarrassment right now or laugh uncontrollably because I’m standing in front of Ryan in a church wearing bathroom tissue. Still, I plead one more time. “Ryan! Please. Turn around.”
“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender and turns his back to me. “I can’t believe my luck that I get to ask you this again in one week, but…why are you naked, June?”
“Again, I’m not naked. I’m in my—”
“Underclothes. Yes, I’m aware. Your paper towel dress has lost the upper half by the way.” He’s walking backward in my direction.
I gasp and look down, grabbing the end of the paper that fell loose and is flapping in the breeze and retuck it under my arm. “This isn’t my fault. Those little jerks stole my clothes!”
