We’ve done weddings at Carnation Cellars before, but this is our first one of the summer. The rustic winery thirty miles east of Seattle has high ceilings, fairy lights wrapped around rafters, and rows of white chairs in the garden, where the ceremony will take place. The whole wedding cost about a Tesla and a half. It’s not that I can’t see the magic, because it’s hard not to when the venue is this stunning and the sweet scent of lilies and gardenias hangs in the air. It’s that it feels a little less magical after doing it a few hundred times. After knowing how many breakdowns and fights about color schemes and meddlesome in-laws happened along the way.
The bridal suite is up a spiral staircase and at the end of the hall, with a sign that says FUTURE MRS. GELLNER-BRIDGES hanging on the door. Asher knocks with two knuckles.
“Come in!” calls my mom.
As far as bridal suites go, I’ve seen worse. The six bridesmaids are positioned in powder-pink upholstered chairs, none of them dressed yet. A makeup artist is sweeping blush onto the cheeks of the bridesmaid nearest me, who’s filming an Instagram video. Makeup and hair products cover the vanity counters, suitcases spilling their contents onto the floor—extra clothes, chargers, tampons, water bottles, jewelry. I even spot a strip of condoms peeking out from a garment bag.
Naomi, wearing a white robe with #BRIDEBOSS printed on the back, stands in the corner with my mom, who’s bent over a heap of ivory fabric and lace. “Is it going to look too obvious?” Naomi asks. Her long blond hair is braided down one side, and she has the end of it gripped between two manicured nails.
“Not at all,” my mom says smoothly as she runs a needle and thread through what looks like a broken zipper. “This happens all the time, believe it or not. And everyone’s going to be looking at the gorgeous smile on your face, not your lower back.”
“Unless they’re Jonathan’s friends,” one of the bridesmaids puts in, and they share a laugh while Naomi mimes retching onto a barely touched charcuterie board. How anyone can leave a hunk of Brie just sitting there is beyond me.
“How can we help?” I ask, putting on my peppiest voice. I’m safe in here. And today is about Naomi, as my mom would be quick to remind me, not the history I have with her brother. Hashtag bride boss!
“Quinn, sandpaper, please.” Mom delegates without looking up from her sewing. “And, Asher, steam the dresses?”
I’ve never known someone who draws so much energy from the chaos around them. Mom’s suit is pressed, not a hair in her bun out of place, her cat-eye glasses making her look somehow both retro-cool and fifteen years younger. Asher is her carbon copy, already leaping into action across the room, plugging in the steamer and holding it up to the first mauve bridesmaid dress, a chic Grecian halter with a floor-length skirt. They’re often mistaken for sisters, so it makes sense that she followed in Mom’s footsteps, studying business and officially joining Borrowed + Blue after graduating college three years ago.
I unzip my mom’s emergency kit and extract two sheets of sandpaper. Dad carries one too, but Mom’s could double as an apocalypse preparedness kit. It’s a rolling suitcase filled with beauty products, first-aid items, at least five kinds of tape, breath mints, gum, and Listerine strips, bug spray, deodorant wipes, a hot glue gun, protein bars, bamboo skewers to prevent any cake-toppling, a spool of ribbon in case a bride forgets her something blue, and about a hundred other things guaranteed to solve any wedding catastrophe. When I was little, it mesmerized me. I wanted one just like it, and for my fourteenth birthday, she gave me my own, a miniature version of hers with my name embroidered in gold floss. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d already decided by then that wedding planning wasn’t my future career.
The bride’s and bridesmaids’ shoes are lined up like little patent-leather soldiers. It took only one bridesmaid slipping down the stairs and spraining an ankle for my parents to learn to scuff their shoes before the ceremony. I scrape each pair of shoes enough times to ensure no bridesmaids will be plunging to their deaths today, then finish them off with hair spray.
“I love these dresses.” Asher runs her hand down the length of a mauve skirt. “They’re elegant, but they feel like they’ll be easy to move in. And this beading along the neckline… gorgeous.”
“Naomi did a mitzvah, picking out these dresses,” says the maid of honor.
“Are you sure you don’t tell everyone that?” Naomi asks Asher. “Even the ones in ruffles and shoulder pads?”
A bridesmaid shudders as she grabs a cluster of grapes. “Don’t talk to me about shoulder pads. I’m still recovering from Tiffany Schumacher’s wedding, and that was five years ago.”
I gesture to Asher, Mom, and me with my can of hair spray. “Wedding planners are excellent liars. I’m sure we would have been all over those shoulder pads.”
“I might even have some extras in my emergency kit,” Asher says. “You never know when you’re going to need to relive an entire decade’s worst fashion choices.”
Mom gives us a judgmental shake of her head, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile. “Please excuse my daughters. They’re still learning basic human interaction.”
“You love us,” I say.
“Unfortunately.”
“Pulse check,” says another bridesmaid, a redhead with an orchid clip in her hair, as she reaches for a cracker on the charcuterie board, careful not to mess up her lipstick as
