So it doesn’t matter that she’s picking my dress and flowers and the venue and the officiant. It’s not the real deal. This will last a year or two, tops. It’s just to get Colt and I back where we want to be.
I’m not even sure if I ever want to get married for real. After my parents’ marriage fell apart, it didn’t exactly give me hope that people can make a lasting partnership work anyway. And nothing else in my life has given me reason to doubt that conclusion.
Sure, you see feel-good stories on the internet about cute little old people who are still in love. And maybe they are. But that’s, what? A one in a million chance?
I’ve found my true love—music. And I’m pursuing that with my whole heart. That’s what matters right now. I can get dick on my own terms when I have the time and energy for it.
All too soon, it’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’m in a hotel room on the coast about an hour north of LA getting dressed in a white sleeveless dress with a simple satin bodice and overlapping layers of chiffon making up the skirt. It’s pretty and whimsical and will float gently around my legs in the offshore breeze. But it’s nothing like what I would’ve chosen for myself. I would’ve gotten something floor length, for starters, though I do like the flowy chiffon. Other than that, I don’t really know, and I’m feeling some kind of way about the fact that I’m putting on a wedding dress that’s not me-me or edgy pixie girl pop star me, which is honestly what I would’ve expected from Delores. Something a little more punk, a punch of color, definitely not traditional white. Somehow that would make this feel a little better. Like I’m just playing the role I’ve been playing for years now. It’s just a publicity stunt. Not really real.
But this is a real wedding dress. And one I didn’t choose. I will admit it goes well with the romantic beach wedding at sunset theme, though.
Colt is somewhere in another room getting ready in gray slacks and a button down that he’s to wear cuffed above the elbow with the collar open—Delores was very specific. Does he feel as awkward about having his wardrobe chosen for him as I do? Maybe not, because I don’t know how much input guys expect to have in their wedding attire anyway. It’s usually a tux, and the bride gets to pick the colors and all that jazz. Right? That’s how it seems in the movies and on TV anyway. I was never one of those girls who dreamed of their wedding or planned what they might wear. Maybe that only happens in movies too, where people create their dream weddings before they’ve even met a person they want to marry. As far as I know, none of my friends ever did that, either.
So this is fine. Everything is fine. Even if this isn’t the dress I expected Delores to pick, it’s still the dress for my persona to wear to get married. It’s not me. Not really. Legally, sure, but deep down? No.
To make it seem even less like a real wedding, we have no attendants. No guests. Delores will be the only witness, and she’s assured me that we’ll be in a private section of beach that’s usually reserved for small, outdoor events. It has a view of the water, but is walled from view of the public. She has the marriage license, the rings, everything. And a photographer to document the day so she can sell the pictures to the highest bidder.
As I’m putting the finishing touches on my makeup—simple and subtle aside from my signature crimson lips per Delores’s instructions—a knock sounds on my door. Before I can answer, the mechanical lock whirs and disengages, the door opening to reveal Delores.
She scans me from head to toe. “You’ll do,” she says and sets a medium-sized white box on the bed. Opening the lid, she reveals a simple bouquet of pink and red roses, their stems bound together with white ribbon. “Here’s your bouquet. Colt’s on his way down. You ready?”
Picking up the bouquet, I take a moment to smell the flowers, focusing on their scent, the feel of the ribbon in my hands, the carpet under my bare toes. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I am. There’s no backing out now. I look at Delores. “Ready.”