Borrow-A-Bridesmaid by Anne Wagener Page B

Lightly at first, letting each new sensation sink in. (For the record, I was right about his athletic lips.) Here we go is all I can think. As I lean my head back to deepen the kiss, I tip my skis over the edge of a precipitously high cliff. And then I’m not thinking at all.
    The sound of other partygoers walking our way brings us out of the moment. We pull apart dizzily, as if seeing each other for the first time.
    Suddenly nervous, I start to fidget. “I guess we better get back soon, huh? Rest up for the wedding and whatnot.”
    â€œI guess so, yeah.”
    â€œDo you need a ride home?”
    He grins. “I wish. But I rented a car.”
    We walk back through the Great Hall, hand in hand, toward the massive museum door, where Brick is still at his post. He tells us to have a wonderful evening and gives me a not so subtle wink when Charlie’s not looking.
    Though Charlie’s car is closer to the Gallery, he insists on walking me back to the Elephant and Castle. Before I get into my car, he leans in and kisses me just to the left of my lips, then stands chivalrous guard to close my car door after I’ve climbed in. He nods in confusion at my half-rolled-down window. “You shouldn’t leave that rolled down—someone might break in.”
    I laugh. “Well, if anyone wants to steal this baby, God help them. Also, it got stuck last month and hasn’t rolled all the way up since. I have a tarp in the backseat for inclement weather. Aren’t you sad you don’t get to ride home in this beauty?”
    He leans against my car door. “Actually, I really am. Hey, thanks for showing me a good time tonight. See you tomorrow—I’ll be waiting for my word of the day.”
    With more than a little regret to drive away from him, and much more than a scintilla of fire in my nether regions, I wave good night.

Six

    S usan looks like a bridal statue: beautiful, pale, and unmoving. Or like one of those street entertainers who paint every inch of their skin the same color and do robot dances, à la my mime savior from the Metro. But Susan is far from robot dancing. The smoothness, the confidence, from the rehearsal dinner the night before has lapsed, and she looks like she might cry or perhaps vomit. T minus twenty minutes until the ceremony. If she were a close friend, I’d be on my bridesmaid A game. But being slightly hungover and not knowing quite what to say, I’m relieved when Lisa crouches down, grasps Susan’s hands, and begins whispering to her.
    I smile as I watch them, but I feel at any moment someone will expose me for a fraud, squeeze my flowers, and have them shoot water in my face. “Get this clown out of here,” some grandma from the groom’s side will shout, shaking her cane in the air. I smooth the fabric of my midnight blue dress. I turned out to be the same size as Jessie, Susan’s cousin. I’m a stand-in. A stunt double.
    Someone has thoughtfully placed champagne and strawberries on a nearby table, and while Susan and Lisa are having their BFF time, I sneak over and drain the contents of a crystal glass. I close my eyes and feel the liquid settle into my stomach, feel the bubbles travel through my limbs, making them tingly. I’m counting on the surreality of this whole situation to carry me. As Susan begins whimpering, I fill and down a second glass in one swift, unbroken motion.
    The church is the same one Susan has attended since childhood: a small church in Lorton, one of northern Virginia’s exurbs. I study the stained glass windows to quell the awkwardness of my third-wheelness while Lisa pats Susan’s hand and dabs at her eyes with a white handkerchief. Seeing another handkerchief sitting on the table with the champagne, I wrap it around the stem of my bouquet. At my cousin’s wedding, an extra handkerchief came in handy when she erupted into PMS-induced blubbering during the ceremony.
    I look out the