Made Of Honor. Marilynn Griffith

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      It’s official. I’m losing it. Can’t even give me wedding punch now. I’m turning into Rochelle.

      I pressed my wrist to my nose, as if trying to exorcise the memory of Adrian Norrell, the man never spoken of in the Sassy Sistahood. The original heartbreaker. Though my sister and ex-boyfriend did a pretty good job following up behind him. Still, that fiasco didn’t compare to me losing Adrian, who seemed always to be at the edge of me on days like this, even though he was long gone. Vanilla Smella, the bestselling scent in my line of homemade bath and beauty products and Tracey’s favorite, met my nose with notes of honey and crème brûlée, a warm blend that seemed to remove the chill starting to nip at my skin. At times like this, my I-don’t-have-a-man-but-I-can-make-stuff tendencies came in handy.

      If only I could get Rochelle to stop trying to make me quit my job and open a shop when she wouldn’t even use my products. Maybe by the time I was making her honeymoon basket, she’d want to do more than decorate her bathroom with my stuff. As uptight as she could be sometimes, she’d still be married before me. Naomi would probably even beat me to the altar with her mean self.

      I’d long since stopped trying to make sense of it. It’s just the nature of things. Some girls get married and some girls get…

      Flowers in their hair.

      The reception dragged on, though I never felt received. People from BASIC, our church singles group—it stands for Brothers and Sisters in Christ, but it I secretly call it Brothahs and Sistahs in Crisis—stopped to speak to Rochelle and me, dropping not-so-subtle hints about who might wed next. My name was never mentioned. In the present company, that was a relief. Alone again, Rochelle and I indulged in girl talk, something we hadn’t had time for in a while. Not face-to-face anyway, though we volleyed e-mails like Venus and Serena.

      Rochelle saw me peeking at her punch and poured some into my cup. She wasn’t into the sharing of food or drink, even when we were growing up (“disgusting”) but she knew how badly I wanted more punch. And how much I didn’t want to face Ryan’s mother to get it. What happened to having a hostess pour the punch anyway? Some folks just have to control everything.

      Rochelle tugged at one of my cap sleeves and, seeing how tight it was, went for another sore spot instead. “Have you used that half-off coupon for the body wrap yet?”

      “Nope.” I stared into my cup but didn’t drink. Years of Rochelle’s germ speeches had worn off on me. I just couldn’t do it. Who knew I was actually listening? “Rochelle, the only thing that body wrap melted was my wallet.” Fifty percent of a hundred bucks was no sale in my book.

      She pinched her eyes shut. “You are certifiable.”

      No use disputing that one. We were all a little crazy. Isn’t anybody who’s worth knowing? “If you know of a cure for these red lines spidering up my sides, then we’ll talk. Because if I get in an accident on the way home, I’ll have to tell the paramedics I was clawed by tigers.”

      Or thorns.

      Rochelle let punch ribbon from her mouth back into her cup instead of spewing it everywhere like I might have done. Not one drop got onto her dress. Oh, well, at least my contacts were still in. Rochelle made a face that let me know not to say anything more if I wanted to avoid a scene. For all her ladylikeness, that woman laughed like a farm animal when I got her going. Tracey, who was walking towards us now, was no better.

      Ryan, the mysteriously absent groom, intercepted Tracey inches short of my chair. “Give me the garter, babe. The men await.” His voice, the standard Fortune 500-speak, mixed with love talk, gave me the willies. It was like hearing Ralph Nader sing a Barry White song. Just wrong.

      So wrong that when they started fumbling with the garter, I tossed back Rochelle’s possibly-riddled-with-E. coli punch and turned to Rochelle. “Why do men get to fight over satin while I have to defend myself against thorns? It just doesn’t seem fair.”

      Rochelle didn’t respond, but her cheeks inflated like a blowfish’s. If I didn’t stop, she was going to have an all-out fit, but at this point, I didn’t care. I pressed on. “Throwing lingerie at a bunch of guys from BASIC, who have either never seen a woman’s thigh or at best haven’t seen one in a very long time, is just cruel, don’t you think? Why raise a guy’s hopes?”

      I certainly didn’t raise mine at these things. Probably because it was at a wedding that I was crushed, swallowed whole, watching while the love of my life married someone else, someone I’d thought to be a friend. The upside is, when my sister betrayed me with Trevor—minus the marriage, you fill in the blanks—a few years later, I ran into the arms of Jesus once and for all. And Rochelle even got to say, “I told you so.” Or the quasi-Christian version of that—“Jesus told you so.”

      While Rochelle scrambled to compose herself, I fingered the scratch below my eye. For such an intelligent person, Tracey had terrible aim. Her judgment, however, was much better than mine. In the last year, my friend had launched a new business, lost 100 pounds and snagged the biggest software developer in the Midwest. In a few days, Tracey would be settling into her gated housing community while I, don’t-need-a-date Dana, would sleep fitfully, in apartment 202, my lifelong residence.

      Rochelle went for more punch. Tracey, abandoned again, took her seat. And my hand. “Sorry I didn’t send my devotionals to the list this past week.”

      With all our members marrying off at the speed of light, there was only Rochelle, Tracey and I on the Sassy Sistahood e-mail list now, unless you counted my assistant, who read all but never posted so much as a semicolon. She saved her comments for my ears.

      I patted Tracey’s hand. “It’s okay, Rochelle had something ready.” She always did. It was easy for Tracey and me to get lazy and just let Rochelle write every day. She liked to expound on the daily need for holiness and modesty instead of enduring my “flippant irreverence” or Tracey’s “greasy grace.” So we let her do her thing and talked about our real stuff at home. Only now, Tracey wouldn’t be home. The thought of my new phone bill made me shiver.

      Tracey smiled now, knowing she’d be leaving soon for Hawaii. If she could find the groom again.

      “Seriously, Tracey. I’ll take your turn. And mine. I’m sure you’ll be busy for a while.” What she’d be busy doing, I didn’t want to think about. Too bad I couldn’t be like Rochelle and act like I didn’t remember it—I did. Especially today. Why was that?

      Pineapple passion fruit punch.

      Thank goodness the hurt and anguish that followed such things was as vivid as the pleasure.

      Tracey wouldn’t hear of skipping her turn. “I’ll do my spot. And after the, uh, honeymoon, I’ll probably need some extra time in the Word.”

      I’ll bet.

      I hugged her. “I’ll miss you. I do already. Especially at work. Naomi is all over me. I never realized how much you calmed her.” Or me.

      “You guys can be pretty volatile.”

      I laughed, loving, as always, the way Tracey can make a word like “volatile” sound so common. Once in an argument, she’d chided me about my vernacular and I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Today though, our laughter was bittersweet. Things had changed forever.

      “You looked beautiful today. So skinny. I had to blink a few times to be sure that was you,” I blurted out. To СКАЧАТЬ