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Authors: Janet Nissenson

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She’d fretted for weeks over telling him about the wedding, knowing there was zero chance he’d actually offer to go with her, and worrying that he’d be annoyed about her decision. But she’d given up so much for him already – blowing off
both
of her sisters’ birthdays plus a handful of other family events – that she’d hoped he would be understanding.
She had told him about the wedding over dinner three weeks ago, her words halting and unsure.
“And you know how much I dislike all these family functions but this one – well, this one is special. I mean, a birthday is one thing – you have those every year, after all. A wedding – you’d like to think it’s once in someone’s lifetime.”
Nick had rolled his eyes. “Try telling my mother that. I’ve lost track of how many husbands and boyfriends she’s had. My father as well, considering he’s on wife number three right now.”
“I’m sorry.” She’d reached over to squeeze his hand, sensing from his caustic tone that his parents’ multiple relationships were a source of considerable emotional distress for him.
“Forget it.” He’d moved his hand away to pick up his wine glass. “So which cousin is the one being stupid enough to get hitched?”
Angela had sighed. “Gabriella. Second cousin, really, maybe even a third. I’m not exactly sure how that works. Her mother is my first cousin but because of all the various age differences that I won’t confuse you with Gabby is a year older than I am. We were pretty close growing up, hung out together as kids at all the family doings.”
Nick had shook his head in disgust. “And she wants to tie herself down like that at age twenty-three? Hasn’t anyone told her this isn’t the nineteenth century we’re living in?”
“Actually, I think most of my female cousins were right around the same age when they got married, some even younger. The Italians are like that, at least in my family – get married young, have babies young, and then watch the next generation repeat it all over again.”
“Is that what you want, Angel?”
She’d glanced up at him, startled by the question and the serious manner in which he’d asked it. She had recovered quickly, shaking her head emphatically. “No. God, no. At least not for a long time. We’ve had this discussion already, Nick. You know my feelings on the subject.”
He’d shrugged and refilled his wine glass. “Feelings can change, Angel. People can change. Here’s the girl you grew up with, played with as a child, and she’s tying the knot. It’s only natural that you might be feeling like you suddenly want the same things as – what was her name?”
“Gabriella. Gabby. And, no,” she’d insisted. “I don’t want that for myself. You’re absolutely right that twenty-two, twenty-three is way too young to get married. And the very last thing I ever want to do is be like the rest of my family.”
He had seemed mollified after that, changing the subject without really saying for sure if he minded her being away for the weekend of the wedding. It was only as they were getting ready to leave the restaurant that he brought the subject up again.
“You go to your little cousin’s wedding, Angel. I’m guessing they’d all be pretty pissed off if you missed it.”
She’d nodded, touching him lightly on the arm. “Okay. You – you don’t mind?”
He’d chuckled then. “I didn’t say that. Of course I’ll miss not having you at my beck and call for two whole nights. You’ll just have to think of some very creative ways to make it up to me.”
She had thought about asking how he’d spend the weekend without her, then abruptly decided not to push her luck. And then he’d startled her anew by declaring he was taking her shopping the next day for a new outfit to wear to the wedding.
“And I’ll expect pictures to prove that you actually wore it,” he’d warned her. “No chickening out at the last minute. I’m going to pick out an outfit for you that makes a statement. The sort of statement that will have everyone staring at you instead of the bride.”
And the stares had definitely been obvious, beginning with the startled looks she’d received just a short while ago from her parents as she’d descended the staircase at their house.
“My God, where did you get that dress?” her mother had gasped. “It’s – isn’t it a little short for an afternoon wedding?”
Angela had shrugged, trying valiantly to appear nonchalant. “It’s not that short, Mom. Don’t forget that I’m so tall everything is automatically a few inches shorter on me.”
Rita had looked down at her feet disapprovingly. “And why such high heels? You already look like a giant compared to all the other girls. With those shoes you’ll be even taller than the men. You won’t get asked to dance even once.”
Angela had rolled her eyes. “So what? I’m not fifteen and going to a high school dance, after all.”
Rita had thrown up her hands in frustration. “As usual you have to be difficult, have to be different from the rest of us. No one else is going to be wearing that color or such a short skirt. I can just imagine what your aunts are going to say about you.”
It had been on the tip of Angela’s tongue to reply that she didn’t give a flying fuck what her annoying, gossipy aunts had to say. Over the years they’d undoubtedly said plenty, and she could just imagine some of the mean, catty things they’d whispered about her.
But this weekend was already proving to be difficult enough, and since the last thing she wanted to do was start a big fight with her mother, she kept her mouth shut. Fortunately, her sweet, soft spoken father came to the rescue as he’d done so often over the years.
He’d given her a gentle kiss on the cheek, ignoring the look of displeasure Rita sent his way at the gesture. “You look beautiful, Angie,” he’d assured her. “Like a movie star. Nobody’s going to be looking at the bride because they’re all going to be staring at my little girl instead.”
Rita had snorted. “Little? In those slutty shoes she’s taller than you, Gino. And stop filling her head with nonsense. Of course everyone is going to be looking at Gabriella. She’s going to make a gorgeous bride. Such a sweet girl, and what a nice boy she’s marrying.”
Angela had been sorely tempted to correct her mother about the so-called “slutty shoes” – to tell her that the strappy cream sandals were in fact Christian Louboutins that had cost a thousand dollars, and had been purchased at Neiman Marcus, the classiest store in San Francisco. But she’d continued to keep her mouth shut, not wanting to alert her parents to the fact that her entire outfit had cost Nick more money than either of them could ever imagine spending on clothes.
The short aqua lace sheath dress was a Valentino, the cream quilted shoulder bag Chanel. At her throat she wore a new choker-style necklace – this one of cultured pearls with a diamond clasp in the center – and matching drop earrings. The dress admittedly bared an awful lot of her long, deeply tanned legs, but it was one of the loveliest, most exquisite things she’d ever seen.
The wedding was as carefully orchestrated and elaborately planned out as all of the others she’d been to over the years. Her cousins tended to be very competitive, much as her mother and aunts had always been, and they were constantly trying to one up each other, with each birthday party, bridal shower, baby shower, more elaborate and over the top than the one before. As Angela took in all of the tableau – the whimsically printed wedding programs; the soprano crooning “Ave Maria” from the choir loft as guests continued to arrive; the lavishly beribboned floral bouquet that adorned the end of each wooden pew; the seven bridesmaids with their frothy, petal pink gowns and wreaths of pink roses in their identically coiffed hair.
Rita had fretted for weeks when Angela hadn’t been asked to be a bridesmaid. “I don’t understand. I mean, the two of you were so close growing up. Gabriella ought to be ashamed of herself for not asking you. But part of this is your fault, too, Angela. You should have made more of an effort to keep in touch with her instead of spending all your time with your college friends or those McKinnon girls.”
When Rita got on a roll, very little could pacify her. So Angela hadn’t bothered to point out that she and Gabby had begun to drift apart years ago, when they’d attended different high schools, made different friends, developed vastly different interests. She hadn’t blamed Gabby in the least for wanting those closest to her now – her own sisters, best friends, her fiancé’s sister – to be her bridesmaids.
And, thought Angela as she wrinkled her nose in distaste, it was actually a very, very good thing she wasn’t one of Gabby’s bridesmaids because there was no
possible
way she would have ever willingly consented to wear that ridiculous spun sugar confection of a dress. Not to mention the fact that she was at least four or five inches taller than the next tallest of the bridesmaids, and would have looked and felt horribly awkward standing next to all of them.
Instead, thanks to the exquisite things Nick had bought her, and the self-confidence he’d instilled in her over the past months, she felt poised and beautiful for the first time in her life.
Angela stood with everyone else when the bride began to walk up the aisle, and she could feel the stares of her sisters from the pew just behind her as she did. She just hoped that neither of her rather dowdy siblings would recognize the telltale red soles of the Louboutins, and that they thought the signature Chanel emblem on her bag was a knockoff. She could hear them whispering to each other even above the sound of the processional music, and just assumed they were saying something unkind about her as usual.
But she forgot all about her snotty sisters the moment she glimpsed Gabriella’s happy, glowing face. Of all the weddings she’d been to over the years, Angela didn’t think she’d ever seen a lovelier, more enchanting bride than her cousin. And, quite unexpectedly, it made her long for what Gabby had, made her wish that
she
was the bride today and that Nick was the one waiting up at the altar instead of Gabby’s rather nerdy – in her opinion, anyway – husband to be.
She was alarmed at her very unexpected – and very unwelcome – reaction. As the wedding Mass began and she took her seat, Angela told herself firmly that she was just getting caught up in the silly sentimentality what with so much lace and flowers and overblown romanticism surrounding her. She did
not
want to get married – at least not for a long time; did
not
want to float down the aisle in a big, poufy white dress and veil; did
not
want to exchange vows and rings with Nick and promise to love and honor each other for the rest of their lives.
But she did, she realized in something of a panic, and, if she was being really honest with herself, probably always had, from the very first time she’d seen him. She’d done an admirable job of convincing not just Nick but herself that she was perfectly happy with the state of their relationship, that she didn’t want or expect anything more. But it was all a big, fat lie and deep down she’d always known it. If Nick were to ask her to marry him – or even to move in with him – she’d be over the moon, the happiest woman in the universe. She’d agree instantly, would willingly and happily accept whatever small scraps of attention he might toss her way. She’d allowed herself to become his slave, his doormat, who was pathetically grateful for every minute she could spend with him.
She should, by all rights, be feeling disgusted with herself right now, should be hurt and angry that Nick could treat her with so little regard. But in the next breath Angela knew that if she’d had to do it all over again, nothing would be different. She’d accept Nick’s conditions over and over again, no matter how much pain she’d endured over the last months. It had all been worth it, she thought despairingly, even for just one hour with him. She would sacrifice anything – her family, her friends, her pride – to be with Nick for however long it lasted.
***
The wedding reception was being held at one of the numerous country clubs on the Monterey Peninsula, and was thus far turning out very much like all the others she’d attended over the years. The champagne was of a mid-range quality, the chicken marsala a tad on the rubbery side, the slightly undercooked vegetables rather bland. Without Nick on hand to watch what she ate, Angela picked at her food but made sure to keep her wine glass full. She ignored the frown of disapproval Marisa sent her way as she reached for the bottle of barely palatable merlot for the third time. Being with Nick all these months had definitely spoiled her, for she was now used to drinking eighty dollar vintages, dining at Michelin starred restaurants, and wearing an extensive assortment of designer clothing similar to what she had on now.
She tried to picture Nick here at the wedding, surrounded by her family and their friends, and shook her head. It would never happen, she realized. Even though he’d been upfront with her from the start, she was honest enough with herself now to admit she’d always secretly hoped he might change. She wanted him here beside her now, to show him off and feel immense pride at being able to introduce him as her boyfriend. She was just about the only one here without a spouse or date, and certainly the only one here at their table of seven – Marisa, Deanna, their cousin Valerie and the three husbands. The place on Angela’s right was glaringly empty, a continual reminder that she was alone, and would always attend these sort of events alone as long as Nick was in her life.
Soon after the entrees were cleared away, Marisa’s oldest daughter Samantha ventured over to their table and plopped down next to Angela. The kids that had been invited to the wedding – teenagers, really, since no one under the age of fourteen had been included – had been seated at separate tables from their parents, presumably because someone had thought it would be more fun for them that way. In actuality, thought Angela with a smirk, it was because their parents were glad for an opportunity to eat a meal and get tipsy without having to deal with all that teenage angst for a change.
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