Never the Bride Read Free

look up from her candy. “Do you even know whatit means to be married? To be chained to another person for the rest of your life? To pick up socks and wash underwear and care for a grown man like he’s just popped out of infancy? Huh?”
    I glare at her even though she’s got eyes only for her candy “It’s got to be better than being alone. Or being a bridesmaid eleven times.”
    She bites her lip and finally glances at me. “But you know how…you kind of need everything to be a certain way.”
    I nudge my stapler so it isn’t perfectly perpendicular to my sticky notes, just to show her I’m able to handle disorder. I try not to stare at it because now it’s really bugging me. “Are you saying I’m a control freak?”
    “With OCD tendencies. You can’t expect everything to be exactly how you want it if you want to live through a marriage.”
    I stand and start walking slowly toward the bathroom. “I know what compromise’ means.”
    Nicole follows. “Then why do you get mad when I have to check with my husband before we go out? That’s what marriage is. You can’t even poop without someone else knowing.”
    I glance at her to see if she’s serious. She is. Part of me wants to tell her about my dream last night. I always tell her about my dreams. But she’s really pooping on my parade today. We get to her desk and she sits down. I walk on.
    I have these dreams. I’m talking nocturnal, not journal. Yeah, I dream in my journal. I admit it. I’ve written in one since I was fourteen, when I found a strange delight every time I drew a heart with a boy’s name attached in squiggly letters.
    But back to my nightmare. It started with me in a wedding dress.That’s not the nightmare. That part was actually cool because I was in a dress I designed in my journal when I was twenty-two.
    The march was playing. I love the “Bridal March.” Nothing can replace it. I cringe every time I hear a country song or bagpipes or something. My wedding, it’s got to be traditional.
    I was making my way down the aisle, rhythmically elegant, one foot in front of the other. My shoulders were thrown back, my chin lifted, and my bouquet held right at my waist. I once saw a bride carry her bouquet all the way down the aisle holding it at her chest. I shudder just talking about it.
    The train fluttered behind me, like it’s weightless or maybe there’s an ocean breeze not too far away. It was long, bright white, and caused people to nod their approval.
    I smiled.
    Then the “Bridal March” stopped, halting like a scratched record. I looked up to find another bride in my place, wearing
my
dress, standing next to
my
guy. I couldn’t see what he looked like; he was facing the pastor. But the bride, she looked back at me with menacing eyes, overdone with teal eye shadow and fake lashes.
    I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I closed my eyes and screamed again. When I opened them, I could hardly believe what I was looking at. A church full of people, looking at
her.
And what was I doing? Standing next to her in a bridesmaid dress.
    Gasping, I looked down. Hot pink! With dyed-to-match shoes! I glanced next to me and covered my mouth. It was me again, standing next to me, in green. Dyed footwear.
    And there I was again, standing next to my lime self, this time incanary yellow. On and on it goes. I counted ten of me before I woke up, gasping for air, clutching myself to make sure I was wearing cotton pajamas.
    “Thank God,” I said, but as I looked up, I saw a man in my room. He was backlit against my window, like the moon was shining in on him, but I don’t think the moon was out. A scream started forming in my throat, but I recognized that he was not in a stance that indicated he was going to stab me to death. There was no knife. Nothing but an easy, casual lean against my windowsill. Truly, no less scary.
    The scream arrived as I clamored for my lamp. I yanked the string three or four times before it turned on, but when it did, the