“Are you sure?” I prod, smoothing the material of my dress that’s buckling slightly at my waist and trying not to think about the way the shapewear underneath it is cutting off my circulation or the offending red indentation mark it will leave around my middle.
“Will you stop?” Jules pleads and grabs my arm, guiding me in front of the mirrored closet door. “Do you know how much I would kill for this hair?” She touches one of my strawberry-tinged loose curls. “And this face?” She smiles as she runs a finger across my lightly freckled nose and over my cheekbone, my powder-blue eyes peering back at me, wanting so badly to see what she does. I don’t understand the fuss she’s making. Staring back at me is an average-looking girl who easily blends into the crowd—with limp locks, a button nose that’s too small next to her round cheeks, and a few extra pounds she hasn’t been able to lose since college. I can’t help but envy Jules, whose naturally lean figure towers over me, whose body has never needed the assistance of spandex underwear, whose nonexistent love handles have never been shoved into anything.
I tug at a straight strand of my hair that has lost its curl. “I’m not sure I should wear this up tomorrow.”
“No updo?” Jules frowns.
“Maybe not . . .”
“But you were so happy with it when we did the trial run last week. It looks great with the dress and jewelry. Very elegant.”
“I’m just rethinking the pictures.” I pause and gather my hair on top of my head. “I’m not sure I want to be that bride. Maybe I should go for a more casual look?”
Jules waits a beat before answering me, the slight frown that flashes across her face giving away her frustration with my indecisiveness. “What do you mean by that bride? Did something happen? What’s making you second-guess your hair in the eleventh hour?”
“Are you friends with Anne Freeborn?”
“On Facebook?” Jules squints at me as if she’s trying to conjure her face.
I nod.
“Yeah, but I think I hid her from my feed after the last election—her political rants were making me crazy. Why?”
“She’s getting married next month and she posted two pictures this morning asking people to vote on which hairstyle she should go with. Up or down? Tight bun or beachy waves?”
“Okay . . .” Jules continues to look at me skeptically.
“And way more people said down—something like 112 of her friends were against wearing it up—they commented that she’d look more carefree if she wore it loose.”
“Okay . . .” Jules says again.
“So it just made me think—maybe I should wear mine down too? I don’t want to look uptight. Like I’m not having a good time.”
“Because you won’t actually be having a good time?” she asks gently.
“No, but it’s something to think about. The hair,” I say slowly, suddenly feeling self-conscious as I stare at Jules’ face, still registering confusion and doubt. “What?” I challenge. “I can’t make a last-minute change?”
“Of course you can, but—”
“But what?”
“Never mind. You’re right. It’s your day. Down it is!” She claps her hands together, the sound echoing loudly on the balcony.
“Tell me what you were going to say.”
“It’s just . . . you should do what you want and not worry about what others think of it. It’s going to be the biggest day of your life—not theirs.”
I know she’s right—that it’s my day—but I also can’t ignore the words on the tip of my tongue, even if I wish they weren’t perched there, like divers about to sail off the board. The truth is, I care. I care a lot.
“I can’t really explain it, okay? It’s just how I feel. And anyway, maybe I should take this as a sign? Maybe I was supposed to wear my hair down, no matter what the reason.”
“Maybe that’s it.” Jules smiles, and I can tell by the flickering in her eyes that there is a lot more she wants to say, but she lets it drop and I’m relieved.
“Sorry. I’m just kind of a mess. I want to get it right.” I consider asking Jules for her opinion about why I haven’t heard from Max, but worry I’ll sound too neurotic after my hair up/hair down diatribe. My cell phone buzzes and I pull it out of the pocket of my dress and shake it at Jules. “And it’s not helping that my mom refuses to stop texting me about Dad and the wife—”
“I cannot believe she still won’t use her name,” Jules says, cutting me off.
“Well, you know, it’s only been eighteen years.” I shake my head. “Apparently the wife has already offended her, and I quote, ‘multiple times,’ today.” I think of the last message from my mom demanding that I ban my stepmom, Leslie, from the family picture and feel my stomach tighten into yet another knot.
“I’m sorry you’re even dealing with this! I told Stella she was supposed to keep your mom’s neurosis from you—she’s under strict orders to pass all of her complaints my way.” She places her hands on her slim hips and narrows her green eyes.