I’m still slightly annoyed that she didn’t give me a warning about my nuptials with Derek. Immediately following our first rehearsal, I ran straight to her apartment to confront her. She wasn’t there, so I had to pace in the lobby, anger intensifying with every pivot. When she finally arrived, happy to see me, I pounced on her with all the accusations I’d been gathering in her absence. Why didn’t you tell me about the wedding and I thought we were friends and do you have a sketch of my dress on you by chance and never mind, that’s beside the point HOW DARE YOU.
I hiss at her now. “I still can’t believe you kept this a secret from me. You knew Derek and I were going to have to get married in the parade. You designed my wedding dress!”
“I’m sorry, okay? Like I said, I sign nondisclosure agreements about this stuff. It’s supposed to be kept under wraps.”
“That’s such a cop-out!”
As a rule, Carrie and I sign those and then immediately run to one another to share any and all secrets we’ve gathered. It’s called friendship. Look it up.
“Fine. Okay. I didn’t tell you because Thomas and I agreed it was better if you and Derek didn’t know.”
“Oh, so is Thomas your new best friend now?”
I sound like an eight-year-old on the playground. It’s either him or me! We can’t both fit on this seesaw!
“Don’t act like this is the worst thing ever,” she says, glaring like she’s got me pegged. “Your dress is going to look amazing and Derek is going to eat his heart out when he sees you in it. What’s the big deal anyway? You said yourself, you and Derek are friends. This should be fun! Now hold still so I don’t accidentally stick this comb into your scalp.”
Lovely.
My best friend is keeping secrets from me, and while karma should be smiting her, in reality, she’s having the time of her life during all of this. As the executive producer of the parade, Thomas is present for all of our rehearsals now too. He and Carrie stand together during the run-throughs and I catch their little smiles and teasing banter. Like a cranky drunk, I want to shout at them to get a room. Instead, I channel my rage into rehearsals. I’m the best damn bride anyone has ever seen. I wear that veil like it’s a superhero cape. I stare up at Derek while he leans over me and I keep my lips clamped shut, unwilling to admit that I’ll DIE if he doesn’t just kiss me already.
“It seems like you really want to ask me for something,” Derek teases, leaning over me. “Whitney, c’mon. I can’t read lips. You’ll have to tell me what you want.”
I’m gasping. Then I recover.
“I want you to let go of me so I can go get some water.”
He smirks and tugs me back to standing. His hands drop from my waist. “Now that you mention it, you do look flushed.”
“I hate you.”
As I walk toward my water bottle, he calls after me, “Not really something a bride should say to her groom on their wedding day!”
Apparently, I’m the only one feeling the sexual tension. Derek thinks this whole thing is one big laugh. Meanwhile, I’m edging toward insanity. I talk about the parade with anyone who will listen: the freshmen in the dorm, Julie, Carrie, the girl at Subway making my six-inch turkey on wheat. Okay, that was only once, but I think we can all agree that’s one sandwich artist too many.
In an effort to protect what few heartstrings I have left, I’ve taken to wearing extra layers to rehearsal. Tank top, t-shirt, sweatshirt, Nancy Drew overcoat tied at the waist—anything to keep his hands off me. But this is south Georgia we’re talking about, and even in autumn, it’s a balmy 80 degrees in the afternoons. The layers usually last only until I’m coated in a nice sheen of sweat and my vision is dotted, then I yank them off with an angry huff.
Even on the days I manage to hold out and stay overly clothed, Carrie inevitably ruins it by asking me to try on a piece of my costume. I just want to see if this very revealing bodice fits or not. Now take off your shirt. I always end up feeling entirely too underdressed in Derek’s arms. Like they’re trained for it, his hands always manage to find the