Chapter 7: The Morning of Everything
I didn't sleep much.
I lay in bed in the early hours listening to the house, turning the night over in my mind — the bill on the table, Raymond's voice cracking, Frank's shoulders finally dropping, Daniel sitting on the kitchen floor beside me without a word.
At six-fifteen I gave up and made coffee.
I called the venue at seven on the dot.
The manager picked up on the first ring.
"This is Lena Marsh.
I have the deposit ready.
I can bring a certified check within the hour."
A pause on the other end.
"Ms.
Marsh.
We do have your date still available.
If you can be here by eight-thirty—"
"I'll be there by eight."
I was.
By ten o'clock I was back home, sitting in the chair in my childhood bedroom while my best friend, Sara, pinned my veil into place.
"You look exhausted," Sara said.
"I feel exhausted."
"You also look beautiful."
"Don't make me cry.
Frank spent forty minutes getting this makeup right."
Sara smiled in the mirror.
"Frank did your makeup?"
"He watched three tutorial videos.
He was very serious about it."
She laughed.
I almost did.
The sound of it felt good in my chest — like something coming loose.
"Is Raymond coming?" Sara asked.
"Yes.
He called this morning.
He's driving up with his wife."
Sara's hands paused on the veil for just a second.
"And that's okay?"
"It is," I said.
"It's actually okay."
She finished the pin and stepped back.
"Frank's downstairs," she said.
"He's been there since nine.
He brought you flowers."
I looked at my reflection.
The dress was the one we had chosen together — me and Frank — on a Saturday afternoon eight months ago.
He had sat in the waiting area outside the fitting rooms with a bottle of water and a book he didn't open.
When I had walked out in this one, he had looked up and gone completely still.
*That's the one,* he had said.
Nothing else.
Just that.
I stood up.
"Tell him I'm coming down," I said.
Sara went ahead.
I stood alone in the room for one more moment.
Long enough to feel it — what had almost been lost.
What the night before had almost taken apart.
Then I picked up my bouquet and walked downstairs.
Frank was standing in the hallway.
He was wearing his gray suit, the one he had pressed himself.
His pocket square was white.
His shoes were polished.
He looked the way a father looks when he is trying very hard to hold himself together and not quite succeeding.
He saw me.
His chin moved slightly.
Just once.
"Ready?" I asked.
May you like
He offered his arm.
"Been ready," he said, "for twenty-two years."
