Victoria’s maid of honor, Hannah, is browsing through a display next to the dressing room. “Are you still on the fence about a veil? Because this one is all kinds of amazing.” She produces a birdcage veil, a vintage style made from white netting.
Victoria examines it. “I don’t hate it,” she says. “But I don’t know if a veil is really me.” I wonder what makes someone a veil person.
“To veil or not to veil,” Mom says. “Statement veils have been big for a while, but a lot of modern brides go without. It’s entirely dependent on your comfort level. When you imagine yourself at the altar, do you see Lincoln lifting a veil?”
Before Victoria can answer, my phone buzzes in my bag, and because we are all quietly and significantly assessing the veil, it is loud.
Mom’s head whips in my direction, her eyes daggers.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, scrambling to turn it off.
The saleswoman takes the birdcage veil and affixes it atop Victoria’s head, a look that makes me feel as though we’ve stepped back in time a half century.
“You know, I do love that.” Mom gets up from the couch and stands behind Victoria, making a minor adjustment to the veil. “I had this thought, though, that a hair comb might look even more striking with your dark hair. Maybe something with pearls, something similarly vintage looking?”
“I have the perfect thing.” The saleswoman disappears for a moment before returning with exactly what my mom was looking for.
Mom holds out her hand, taking charge, and tucks it into Victoria’s hair as she creates a makeshift updo. “Especially if you had them twist your hair on one side, a little like this?”
“That’s gorgeous,” Hannah says, eyes wide.
“This,” Victoria breathes. “Yes. This is it.”
“You’ve barely seen it!” Mom motions for Victoria to turn so she can properly appreciate her wedding magic in the mirror.
“I can just feel it.”
My phone lets out another loud buzz.
“Sorry! I swear I turned it off. Must have hit the wrong button.” It’s as though my hands have turned to butter because I—can’t—grasp it. My mom is going to be pissed later. I genuinely like Victoria, and I prefer she doesn’t think I’m a kid who can’t follow basic instructions.
Just as I’m fiddling with it, it starts ringing. In this moment, I regret picking “The Imperial March” as a ringtone, but I couldn’t think of anything else to express how I feel about talking on the phone.
“You know we keep our phones on silent when we’re with a client,” Mom mutters to me. I’d point out that this rhymes and therefore would make a great slogan—Borrowed + Blue: our phones are on silent when we’re with a client!—but I fear she may not appreciate it.
“Is everything okay?” Victoria asks.
“I promise, we don’t usually have our phones on during meetings like this.” Mom lifts her shoulders as though to say, Kids, amirite?
“No, I meant with whatever was going on.” She nods at my phone. “It sounds like it might be important.”
Another text, and I chance a look down to see it’s from Julia.
“I don’t mind,” Victoria says. “Go ahead.”
“Sorry, sorry,” I keep saying, opening up my conversation with Julia.
Julia: SOS
Julia: I’m at Noelle’s work and I thought it would be idk, busy?? But I’m the only one here and it’s awkward and I need backup PLEASE QUINN I’M
Julia: I finished my blueberry muffin and god help me I might get another one just so I can have something else to do
Julia: I got a scone instead and it was much chalkier than I was expecting it to be? Are scones always this hard? Anyway I choked a little and Noelle was concerned and I didn’t want her to think she was complicit in my death by selling me a faulty scone so I told her it was delicious and then accidentally bought another one
“It’s my best friend,” I say, muffling a laugh. “Romance troubles.”
“Ah,” Victoria says. “I remember it well. It was torture not to be able to talk to Hannah during the show.”
“As soon as she got her phone back, I must have gotten… what, thirty texts in a row?” Hannah says.
“Closer to fifty.” Victoria turns back to me. “If you need to go, I totally understand.”
“Really? I mean, she could use the help, but I don’t want to run out on you.…” I look to Mom, who’s half frowning, seemingly torn between Victoria’s wishes and her own.
“Of course,” she says. “I can finish up here.”
Freedom.
“Excuse us for a moment,” Mom says, and walks me to the door. Something bad is coming. I can feel it. “I don’t want to nag you, but you’ve got to make sure your phone is on silent next time. We don’t want anyone to think for a moment they don’t have our full attention. You know better than that.”
You know better. You’re so mature.
Now I’m wondering if maybe those compliments took something away from me. Not anything dramatic, like my entire childhood, but the ability to try things out. To fail. To venture out on my own, not as one-fourth of the B+B Berkowitzes but as Quinn.
But if I were just Quinn, if I somehow managed to leave weddings in the past, I might feel as lonely as I did during the worst six months of my life.
I can’t go back there.
“I promise,” I tell her, “it won’t happen again.”
“You’re saving my life,” Julia whispers when I get to the coffee shop, a cozy spot in Wallingford with exactly two people in it: Julia and Noelle. “Oh, and don’t get a scone.”
“Wasn’t planning on it. Hey, Noelle!” I say, approaching the counter.
“Hey,” she says. “Job interview?”
“I—oh. No.” I stare down at my outfit, the skirt seams probably working overtime to keep my thighs trapped. I’ll have to save that perfect summer dress for another day. “I was at a dress fitting.”
“Did you ever watch Perfect Match? Quinn’s
