The Difference Between Getting and Needing

t w e n t y - s e v e n

if there ever is an after,
would you wait there for m e . . .

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For what would hopefully be the last time – maybe not during my entire life but for at least the duration of this arduous wedding – Cyclone Sutton touched down. She hurtled through my room just before eight o'clock on the morning of the big day, barking out everything on our to-do list like I could actually comprehend whatever she was saying as we got into a tug of war with my comforter.

She won, because why wouldn't she? And when she finally tore it off of me, the useless strategy of flailing my legs around as a defense almost ended with my foot swinging by her face.

I missed it by less than an inch. The crazed look in her eyes that she gave me felt like the kiss of death. We both went silent.

"If you give me a fucking black eye on my wedding day, don't even show up," she threatened in an alarmingly calm tone.

I blinked back at her. She dropped my comforter to the floor and spun on her heel, calling over her shoulder before she left my room, "Be in the bridal room in five minutes. It's time to get ready."

I was there in four. Out of breath, in flip flops and the hotel robe from my room, with my bridesmaid dress hanging over my shoulder in its plastic cover.

The boys had it easy; they could sleep in, have a decent breakfast and lunch, then get ready with ease thirty minutes before the chaos unfurled. On the other hand, I hadn't seen so many false eyelashes or inhaled so much hairspray since my senior prom. We had the designated "bridal room" (a stuffy, perfumed space on the second floor of the hotel) for four hours, which any normal person would think is plenty of time to get ready. With all six bridesmaids, Sutton, and my mother involved, it wasn't nearly enough.

I was scarfing down as many miniature sandwiches as I could to hold me over until the reception, while a makeup artist navigated around my constant chewing to fix my face. Wedding party photos were supposed to start around noon, but we had less than an hour and Valerie was the only one seemingly ready.

She paced the room in the knitted barefoot sandals we were all wearing so we wouldn't be entirely shoeless on the beach. Her skin had that lit-from-within glow to it, which only made me hope my makeup turned out half as good. A single orchid was tucked into the side of her chocolate waves, freshly picked by a local florist for all the bridesmaids. The satiny blush tone of our dresses complimented her bronzed skin the best out of everyone, and I'd be damned if she didn't look more like the real Maid of Honor in the room.

As I took a swig of champagne to wash down my sixth sandwich, she stopped in her tracks by my stool.

"You ready for your speech?" She asked me, wearing the smuggest smirk I'd ever seen when I glanced up at her.

I almost snorted out champagne through my nose.

It was the one thing – if not the most important thing – I had forgotten about. Sutton never mentioned it because she probably assumed I knew I had to write one. Rightfully so, because I was the Maid of Honor; it was my duty. I was rudely reminded of it as we went through the motions of the wedding at the rehearsal dinner last night, and had to fake a smile as if I had it planned for months. Like I said before, I wasn't the best Maid of Honor ever by any means, but it was the best Sutton was going to get at this point.