Toss the Bride by Jennifer Manske Fenske Read Free Book Online Page B

Wedding to jump off Stone Mountain,” I say.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause that magazine is printed months in advance, so those flowers were available, like, eight months ago. I cannot get them for a May wedding,” I reply, starting to get worked up.
    â€œOkay, easy. I was just asking.” Avery flips his racket over in his hands, examining the strings. He’s ready to play again. But I’m not. I go on.
    â€œYou’d think that one of these perfectly intelligent and rich women would take the time to notice that flowers called ‘autumnal joy’ would not be sitting around their chichi florist in early May. It’s just not going to happen!”
    Backing away from the net, Avery stops turning his racket over. He glances toward the veranda, where his father is reading The New Yorker. He can’t hear us because he’s a good quarter of a mile away from the courts. I can make him out, just barely. He’s a tiny speck wearing a V-necked sweater.
    â€œSo, that’s what I get worked up about. Every day. And Maurice has ‘absolute confidence’ in me because I can alphabetize folders while wearing a telephone watch. Believe me, when I get married, I will not be wearing this watch and I will not order flowers that don’t exist naturally!”
    A trickle of sweat runs down my chest and lodges in the band of my sports bra. Without looking at Avery, I know that I’ve gone too far. Avery hates conflict, and I don’t really like it too much, either. My parents don’t fight, and neither do his. Mom teaches thirty second-graders, so when she gets home, the last thing she wants is a noisy house. Dad delivers mail and is alone all day, riding the rural routes around Cutter. He is usually fairly quiet; I’ve heard him raise his voice maybe a dozen times in my life.
    â€œAh,” Avery starts to say.
    â€œNo, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take out my day on you.”
    â€œWell, that’s okay. I guess.” Avery’s face is stretched tight with some sort of decision. I figure he wants to get back to the safety of the veranda, or, at the very least, away from me.
    We walk toward the house, Mr. Leland, and some sort of awaiting cold plate. I’ll find out later that it is smoked salmon, a dish I’d never had until I started dating Avery. I wonder, if we ever break up, will I like the taste of salmon ever again or will it just be a fish I knew once, a long time ago?
    *   *   *
    Maurice calls me in early on Saturday. Katie Anna, our bride, the one with the natural history museum reception, has cold feet. Maurice tells me loudly over the phone that she isn’t sure she wants to be Mrs. So-and-So for the rest of her life. The parents of the bride are pressuring her to go through with it. The creamy engraved invitations alone set them back eight thousand dollars. The wedding is in seven hours.
    I arrive at the museum, where the tables and candle globe centerpieces are being set up. Museumgoers wander along the perimeter of the Great Hall, looping around to tour an exhibit about ancient Syria. Mentally, I try to place the country on a map, but I draw a blank. I was never that great with geography.
    â€œThere she is,” Maurice whispers dramatically as I skirt the caterer’s helper laden with white wooden chairs. “You’ve got to get on this, and I mean fast.”
    Maurice is worked up. He reminds me constantly about referrals and reputation and publicity. If this bride bails—and from the look in her dazed and sobbed-out face, I think she’s close—Maurice will be damaged. I’m usually sent in to save the day. I’m supposed to talk about babies and white wedding dresses. If that doesn’t work, I’m to go for the you’ll-be-lonely-until-you-die jugular. The sad thing is, I kind of believe in it all. The white dress, the honeymoon in Belize, the procession of infants in short pants.