The Status of All Things
by Liz Fenton , Lisa Steinke
To Cristine, for being so much more than my mom
To Matt, for making this dream possible
CHAPTER ONE
In less than 24 hours, I’ll be walking down the aisle.
Something borrowed, something blue? Check.
Something old, something new? Check.
The love of my life? Double check! #whatcouldgowrong
I upload my status to Facebook, tuck my cell phone away, and try to savor the only minute alone I’ve had all day. Sitting on the veranda of the bridal suite, I stare hard at the waves crashing against the Wailea coastline. I tug on the unforgiving fabric of my black peplum dress, having just fought my way into it moments ago. Stella, my wedding planner, with a permanent flush to her round cheeks and steely look in her eyes had unabashedly yelled, suck it in! as she yanked the zipper until it stubbornly found its way to the nape of my neck.
Embarrassed, I had immediately sent her away with a checklist, to place the gerbera daisies in the vases—two orange and one white in each—and to confirm that the ginger-glazed shrimp skewers and crispy spicy tuna rolls would be passed at 7 p.m. sharp. I also reminded her to make sure my mother and father, divorced for almost two decades, would be sitting not just at different tables, but across the room from each other, my mom’s quiet anger over my dad leaving her still easily triggered like a scab that gets scratched and starts bleeding.
“And please don’t forget to deliver Max his groom’s gift!” I had craned my neck out the doorway as she’d jogged down the hall, giving me a thumbs-up without ever turning around, no doubt trying to put as much distance between herself and the memory of forcing the folds of my lily-white skin into a size 8 dress.
I had spent months scouring Pinterest boards for the perfect gift for Max—finally settling on a vintage Tag Heuer watch, lightly engraving You’re still the one on the inside of the band, a nod to the Shania Twain song we’d danced to at the wedding where we’d been introduced by my best friend, Jules, three years ago. I couldn’t wait to tell Max the story of how I’d found the antique timepiece on eBay, then engaged in an intense bidding war with Shaggy202, my eyes burning and my hands sweating, all while Max slept soundly next to me. I waited patiently for the final seconds before the auction closed, then punched in a final bid, a number that far exceeded my budget, sending Shaggy202 retreating into cyberspace as I silently pumped my fists in the air and mouthed the words take that, bitch!
But if Max received the watch, he hadn’t told me. I’d texted him several times coyly referring to a special delivery he should’ve received—and it wasn’t like him not to respond. I push the thought aside as I watch two little girls giggling as the turquoise ocean water splashes up around their knees. I close my eyes, knowing I should take a cue from them and inhale the warm Maui air and just be. That my mind shouldn’t be swirling like the tide as I second-guess practically everything—including my decision to get Max the watch instead of the cuff links. But when you devote a year to planning one day, you want everything to be perfect.
“Knock-knock,” Jules says as she pushes the door of my suite open and I spot the familiar yellow label on the bottle of champagne she’s holding before I see her. I smile as she giddily holds up my favorite bubbly. From the moment we’d met over fifteen years ago on the first day of freshman orientation at UCLA, bonding over a shared disdain for our smarmy tour guide and his repeated use of the word homeboy, she’d had an uncanny ability to anticipate exactly what I needed. That day, as we’d paused in front of the student union, listening to our guide ramble on about the off the chain clubs we could join, at the precise moment I didn’t think I could take one more minute of his legit raps, she’d stage-whispered, “I don’t know about you, but I say we ask those guys to give us the rest of the tour,” pointing to a group of frat boys tossing a football in the quad. Jules looped her arm through mine, and as we muffled our giggles and inched away from the group, I knew I’d made a best friend.
“Hey.” She pulls me into a deep hug then steps back. “You look absolutely gorgeous,” she says, knowing exactly what I need to hear.