The morning dawns bright and hopeful. The blue sunshine licks over us and paints the inside of my closed eyes a flossy red. I’m a tangle of limbs, legs, and arms wrapped together, bodies pressed tight, bare skin whispering over bare skin, so I can’t tell up from down or what belongs to who.
I’m floating, half-asleep, hopeful.
Perhaps . . . maybe . . . I draw in a shaky breath, but the moment I open my eyes, I know.
The bedroom is blurry. Across the room, Fitzy Butterbottom is a shiny, indistinct figure, the computer is a blob, and the window, with sunlight streaming through the shield, sends rainbow prisms across the rug, showing a clear, bright, wavy blue sky.
It’s the perfect day for a wedding.
My stomach drops as I tilt my head and look down at Henry.
He’s still asleep, his cheek nestled against my chest, his leg thrown over mine, his hand curled over my heart. His hair is tangled—it always does, which is why I usually braid it before bed—and his mouth is parted, letting out little sleep sighs. I can see well enough up close without glasses or contacts. I’ve never seen what I look like sleeping before. I look younger than I am. Innocent. Soft. Vulnerable. I’m not any of those things though. So maybe it’s Henry that makes me look that way. Maybe when I’m in my body and asleep I don’t look like this at all.
I let out a sigh, and it’s then that Henry wakes. He stretches, squeezes his eyes tight, and makes a sleep noise. Then I think he remembers that we might have—maybe—could’ve— switched back, because he stiffens like a kid remembering it’s Christmas morning and flings open his eyes. And then as quickly as the hope came, it dies. His body sags and he gives me a soft smile.
“I suppose it was too much to hope,” he says, his voice sleep-thick and husky.
I nod, shifting under him. Henry untangles himself from me, sitting up and pulling the covers free. The cool air of the bedroom rushes over my skin, bringing up goose bumps.
“All right,” he says, nodding like a man facing a duty he doesn’t want but will do to the best of his ability anyway. “Onward.”
I squeeze his hand. Then, before I can say anything, there’s the sound of feet pounding down the hall, the excited voices of kids and the yipping of dogs, and then banging on the thick wooden door as a voice calls, “Uncle Henry! Uncle John says get up or he’ll get you up because he’s getting married today!” That’s Michael, Maeve’s five-year-old brother, and then Maeve yells through the door, “Grandma says Serena needs a fascinator! Does she have one? If not, I can help her pick one! It can be pink with sparkles!” There’s a bark of excitement to emphasize the point.
And I’m left wondering what a fascinator is, which means I most definitely didn’t pack one for Henry. Especially not a pink sparkly one. Since he balked at wearing my floral dress, I think he’ll definitely balk at wearing something sparkly.
“Did you bring a hat?” he whispers.
Ah. That must be a fascinator. I shake my head. In the rush to get to the airport and the head-spinning disorientation of being Henry, I forgot that not wearing a hat to a wedding in England is worse manners than showing up wearing only gold nipple tassels and a G-string.
“I do not have one,” Henry calls, then he kicks the covers off and gives his cheeks a quick wake-up slap. “We’ll be out in a moment!”
“Coming!” I add.
Then Henry swings his legs off the side of the bed, gives me a bracing look, and says, “Ready?”
Am I?
Can I do this?
Can I stand as best man for his brother? Can I navigate a wedding as Henry and fool his entire extended family? Can I give his speech as best man?
Oh gosh, what’s that saying? “Pride goeth before the fall”?
I nod confidently. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m ready.”
John and Olivia were hitched without a hitch.
They were married in a little stone church from the 1500s on top of a little green hill in the center of a little stone village with green grass and bright-blue skies and hedges and sheep fields in the distance. Olivia arrived in a Rolls Royce and her white dress snapped around her and her veil lifted like a cloud in the wind, and I couldn’t help but think there really never has been a more beautiful, happy bride. When John saw her I heard his breath catch, and the light in his eyes made my chest ache.
Then the wedding began and Lizzy’s kids tumbled down the aisle dressed in finery, with oohs and ahhs from both sides of the church. And then the corgis trotted down the aisle dressed in gray tails to match the ushers, and only one of the corgis stopped to chase not his actual tail, but the jacket tail. When he couldn’t catch it he settled on chewing the white ribbon at the end of a wooden pew. Everyone laughed, and then Henry, sitting in the row behind his parents, scooped up the dog and held it in his lap.
After that the wedding went like weddings do. Henry’s mom cried into a handkerchief that Charles handed her. The kids fidgeted and the dogs sniffed the guests. I stood behind John, and Niall stood behind me, all of us dressed in tails and gray trousers. I remembered the rings. There were lots of brightly colored hats and flowery, whimsical dresses. Olivia and John stared at each other and forgot everyone else in the entire church while they said their “I dos.”
And Henry . . .
He sat in the pew behind his parents, the only sibling not standing up with his brother. The entire service he sat pin-straight wearing my pale-pink knee-length chiffon dress and the hot-pink fascinator with its lace folding like pink sea-foam and tall fuchsia feathers flowing like ocean spray. He didn’t complain about the chiffon or the feathers, or when I put on makeup or twisted his hair into a chignon.
“I’m sorry you aren’t standing up with him,” I’d said while I pinned the chignon in place.
“Not to worry. I have a better view sitting down,” he’d said, and we left it at that.
But the whole wedding I couldn’t help but recognize the look on Henry’s face. It’s the one I wore so often when I was younger—the one I vehemently denied last night. Watching his family, watching his brother marry the love of his life, Henry looked . . . alone.
He was alone.
All that has passed though, and now we’re gathered under the marquee in the garden outside the family home. The white tent was erected this morning as soon as the sun rose, as well as long tables and nearly a hundred chairs, and more bunting and flowers than I’ve ever seen drape from the tented ceiling and mound from gold vases on the tables.
It’s a dreamy, flowery tented wonderland, and all the family and wedding guests are crowded under it, sitting at the tables, milling about, and congratulating the newlyweds.
There’s a heady, bubbly feeling in the tent—one of celebration and excitement. The air smells of roses and lilies and champagne. There’s a towering five-tier wedding cake spilling over with icing and tropical fondant flowers, and there’s the joyous bubble of conversation and laughter.
I stand, take the microphone, and clear my throat, facing the sea of faces.
It’s time for the best man’s speech. Henry handed me a folded sheet of paper this morning with the warning to read it exactly as it was written.
I hate to say it, but in the hectic rush of preparations I didn’t have time to read it.
Now he watches me, his finger nervously tapping on the white tablecloth, the drumming making the champagne in his glass ripple and bubble.
I give him a weak smile and he nods back, reassuring me. If I manage this, we’re home free.
I lift the mic and say, “Hullo, I’m Henry, the best man.”
There are a few chuckles as everyone turns toward me and someone shouts, “We know who you are!”
Oh gosh.
You don’t. You actually don’t.
At the long table next to me, the wedding party, Henry’s family, Olivia and John, and of course Lorna, all turn their attention to me.
Well, it’s showtime. I lift the paper up and squint. Henry’s glasses work, but one eye is still kind of swollen, so I’m working with half-vision. Not to mention Henry’s writing is terrible. It’s like a toddler took a crayon and wrote this speech with the crayon between his toes. It’s chicken scratch. It’s cursive gobbledygook nonsense. What is this?
My word. My word.
Someone coughs.
The silence grows thick.
The back of my neck burns and Maeve whispers loudly, “What’s the matter with him?” and then Lizzy shushes her.
I throw a quick pleading glance at Henry, and he lifts his eyebrows and gestures for me to read. “Go on,” he mouths.
I glance back at John. He grimaces at me.
I look back at the marquee full of Henry’s family. His sisters, his parents, his niece and nephews and brother and new sister-in-law, at the aunts and uncles and cousins I only just met today, and his neighbors and even his primary school headmistress, the infamous Ms. Treacletee, whose teacup he glued to its saucer. They’re all here, staring at me—Henry—with either pity, concern, or embarrassment.
I’ve been silent for a good sixty seconds. They think I’m tongue-tied with stage fright.
So.
I can’t let Henry down. I can’t let his family down.
I can give speeches. I give poster presentations at academic conferences all the time. I defended my thesis—that was nerve-wracking, let me tell you—and I gave my valedictorian speech at my high-school graduation. So. Okay. I can give a wedding speech.
I’ll . . . wing it.
Another cough sounds.
A mutter.
Another whispered “Is he all right?”
And so I read what I can, and as soon as I start talking I see Henry’s shoulders relax, and everyone nearby gives a communal sigh of relief.
“Olivia,” I say clearly, chanting in my head, British accent, British accent, do a British accent, “is kind, charming, intelligent, warm-hearted,”—I narrow my eyes and try to decipher what comes next—“lovely as a . . .” I shake my head and then look at Henry. “Sorry, I can’t read your writing.”
Every head turns to Henry—who to them looks like Serena—and then his mouth falls open and everyone—Henry’s dad, John and Niall, his sisters—they all start laughing.
I give them Henry’s cheeky grin and shove the paper in my pocket. “You know how it is.” I nod to John. “You do what the lady says.”
“I do!” John shouts, clearly happy with his lot in life.
“Right. Well, John. Congratulations. Today you married the most wonderful woman. You’ll get boundless love, undying support, kindness, a woman who will stick with you in hard times and in good times. You get the woman of your dreams.”
Henry gives me a small smile—one that says he doesn’t know where I’m going with this, but he trusts me. Lizzy clasps her hands to her chest and gives an “aww,” and John and Olivia gaze lovey-dovey at each other.
“It’s true,” John says, and everyone sighs.
I smile. “And Olivia.”
She nods and clasps John to her side, hugging him tight. Her dress is a white fall of lace around them and her bouquet of white roses rests on the table nearby.
Olivia waits for the list of John’s virtues.
“You get,” I say, pausing, looking around. “Well. I think you can keep the flowers. If you treat them right, they might last a week or two.”
There’s a stunned silence, and then everyone starts laughing.
“No,” Kate shouts, “the flowers are consignment! They have to go to another wedding this afternoon!”
I grin at her and say, “Sorry then. I suppose just the dress will have to do.”
“Henry,” Olivia laughs. “I love John, thank you very much.” Then she tilts her head and says, “But I love this dress too.”
I wait a moment for the laughter to die down. Then I lift my champagne glass, the bubbles rising in a rainbow of gold, and say, “I was wrong. I forgot to mention, you get a man who loves you more than himself, who can’t wait to spend every day of his life with you, and who told me last night that he couldn’t wait to be married and endlessly happy . . .” I pause, wait for the awws to stop, and then say, “I wish you all the happiness. I’m so glad you get to join this family who loves you, and I know we are endlessly happy to have you as a part of it.” I turn to John. “I’m proud of you for recognizing ‘the one’ when you saw her.” I look back at Olivia. “And I’m grateful to you for making my brother happy.” I lift my glass. “To the bride and groom.”
“To the bride and groom!”
I tip back the glass and let the golden apple bubbles of the champagne slide down my throat.
When I look back at Henry, he smiles at me—a bright, clear, grateful smile—and it seems like the champagne bubbles are floating around inside me, because an odd buoyant feeling rises in my chest and bounces like shining effervescence through my veins.
And I’m not quite sure how to make it stop.