If anyone deserves a perfect June wedding day, it’s Ivy and Dave, and it looks to me like they have it. Blue sky, not too hot, lovely ceremony, lively reception. She is the quintessential June bride, he is completely smitten, and their confidence in each other envelops them. I’m so happy for them, I could cry.
It’s all I can do not to.
Nearly a month has passed since Mexico, consumed by work and wedding preparations. One would think I’ve been busy enough not to be preoccupied with pointless wonderings.
Thinking some food might keep the wallowing at bay, I make my way to the refreshment table on the pretext of checking stock. A grandmotherly woman in a sage wedding-party dress approaches, and I touch up my happy-to-be-here look.
“Would you mind?” she asks, glaring at the glass beverage dispenser. “I can’t twist that spigot for the life of me.”
“Of course not,” I say, noticing the swelling and displacement of her weathered knuckles as I take her cup.
“You must be Grace.” She watches me with too-perceptive eyes. “I’m Ivy’s nana.” Her soft, warm hands wrap around mine as I return her cup, the subtle scent of roses reaching my nose.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, remembering the stories Ivy shared about visiting her nana.
“Thank you for being such a friend to my Ivy. She’s told me how much you’ve helped her, how supportive you’ve been.”
Whether from the warmth of her hands or her words, I’m blinking rapidly and losing ground fast.
Nana’s brows furrow over her blue eyes, but her lips hold a soft smile. “It’s hard letting go, isn’t it? Always easier to leave than to be left behind.”
She gets it.
Five roommates I’ve married off, three of whom were especially good friends, Ivy the closest of them all. I’m tired of being alone—left behind, as Nana said—but I shake my head and refuse the self-pity. “I’m happy for her.”
“Of course you are,” she says, patting my hand, “but I can tell that’s not all you’re feeling. You have to feel your feelings, or they’ll eat you up.”
I swallow hard. I know she’s right, but I don’t want to feel them. Not right now.
Nana squeezes my hand. I clear my throat and wipe at my eyes as if I have allergies, and I redirect. “Ivy’s an amazing person, and Dave is so good for her.”
She’s silent until I meet her gaze, and I’m surprised to see I’m not the only one tearing up. “He is good for her.” The loose skin under her chin bobs with a swallow, and I remember Ivy telling me Nana wasn’t married to Ivy’s grandpa until she was in her late thirties. They had one child together—Ivy’s mother—and he died young, leaving Nana alone for the past forty years or so in addition to the first thirty-odd.
“Let yourself feel,” she repeats with a single determined, teary nod, “and then move on.” She squeezes my hand once more, and then she’s gone, taking my tears with her as warmth spreads through my chest.
I know she’s right.