Names have been changed to protect privacy.
I figured I’d never hear from Stephanie again after we finished college.
I liked Stephanie, at least as far as I knew her.
She was a debate-team captain.
She snacked on peanut M&Ms while studying (environmental studies, mostly).
I had to ask who the groom was!
I coauldn’t imagine it was Placeholder Pete.
But yes"Oh, right!
Pete!Great!"
Notreallyso great, though, I secretly thought.
Stephanie never seemed all that into him.
Maybe, I thought, she just hadn’t come across a more desirable suitor.
Or maybe she’d figured a lukewarm relationship is as good as it gets.
Then again, who was I to judge the temperature of their romance?
How was I to know?
But I was flattered and only too happy to send her my dress and shoe size.
For better or worse, nothing appeared to have changed.
I don’t know what she’s doing."
Instinctively, I agreed.
I just wasn’t close enough to Stephanie to take her aside and question her biggest life decision.
So I mentally dropped it.
Then I stepped out to use the restroom, and when I returned, the mood had inexplicably changed.
Stephanie was wailing, her makeup running down her face, chest heaving.
“I can’t do this,” she gasped.
“I don’t want to be here.
I can’t do this!”
The other bridesmaids were perched around her, plying her with bubbly and soothing words.
“It’s just nerves.”
“Every bride gets the jitters!”
I watched them from the doorway, frozen.
Who has the right to tell a bride to call off her wedding 10 minutes before it starts?
None of those someones was me.
But no one else stepped up.
Our friendship was completely superficial.
That had seemed like enough to me before.
But in those terrible moments, I knew this wasn’t really friendship.
I edged into the room, sat on a tiny table and folded my hands in my lap.
Stephanie composed herself, and someone fixed her makeup.
She looked lovely as she made her way down the aisle and said her vows.
We all drank cocktails and danced the Electric Slide.
I tried to convince myself my gut was wrong, it was just nerves.
I boarded a plane home the next day, relieved to be out of there.
Two years later I heard from Stephanie again, this time in a chatty email.
She talked about old friends, her new job, oh, and her divorce from Pete.
My memory is that she wrote something dismissive like, “Don’t worry, I’m moving on.
I’m happy.”
I remembered how awful it had felt, watching her anguish on her wedding day.
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