Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
My father’s insistence I fit in suddenly makes sense. If these are his clients and their friends, it would be an embarrassment for me to come as my normal self. Even now, in a dress that cost over a thousand dollars, I’m still the obvious outsider.
“You look beautiful,” my father tells me, reading the thoughts I didn't voice out loud. He's always been able to do that, he tells me that my face is so similar to my mother's that he's been practicing reading my facial expressions since before I was born.
My mother died when I was young so I don’t remember much of her. And what I do remember comes in small glimpses, moments in time that keep fading with every passing year to where I sometimes question if they are memories at all.
They feel like dreams.
She had a warm smile. Green eyes, much like my own. I remember she used to make Belgian waffles for special occasions, and then we would load them up with whipped cream and berries piled so high they look endless. I would get a stomachache before I finished the entire waffle.
After she died, my father tried his best to step into her role. When his job demanded much of his attention, he would work late into the night so he would never have to miss a dance recital or school play. There were nannies and my aunt who lived with us until I turned 16. I rarely felt I missed out on something by not having a mother.
The unfamiliar longing settles in my chest. Maybe if I had a mother, she would have known what to do with my hair. I can never tame it. She would know the makeup tricks for the green eyes we share instead of me trying to spend hours looking it up on the internet.
An usher arrives to show us to the backyard where the reception is being held. He leads us around the edge of the house and into a pristine garden. Gorgeous flowers line the paths. Thousands of twinkling fairy lights hang above our heads. The wedding is being held near dawn, and the reception will be during the night. As gorgeous as the garden is during the day, I think it’ll be more beautiful at night.
My father keeps his hand on my lower back, guiding me through the masses. We get a few curious glances, but no one bothers to spare more than a second for us. Father gives a few quick hellos, but doesn’t stop to speak to anyone. He sits us in two seats directly in the middle of the crowd.
He’s doing his best to make sure we’re as unnoticeable as possible among the crowd. It's easy enough to blend in. While I've never been to an event as grand as this one, I've been to several weddings. The ceremony follows the same pattern as every other one. Smile for the bridesmaids and groomsmen. Stand when the bridal march starts. Applaud for the kiss, though it is the shortest and most uncomfortable kiss I have ever witnessed.
Easy enough.
Father manages to relax during the ceremony, probably assured that no one will be taking their eyes off of the gorgeous bride. With her light blonde hair and bright red lips, the bride possesses the classic Hollywood beauty. She doesn't smile as she walks down the aisle, and she says her vows in a flat, monotonous voice. The groom practically sneers through the entire ceremony but when I glance around, I'm the only one who finds this weird.
When the pastor dismisses us for the reception, we filter out with the rest of the guests. My father checks his watch anxiously, undoubtedly trying to figure out how much longer we need to stay.
Seating is assigned and our table consists of two young couples and one elderly gentleman. Father watches each person as they sit down, evaluating them. When he sees everyone who is seated with us, he takes what is possibly the first real breath I have seen since we’ve gotten out of the car. The tension is still in his shoulders, his eyes still dart around the other tables, and I can tell he’s keeping a detailed list of where everyone is in his mind. He hasn’t relaxed yet, but at least I’m no longer worried about him passing out from lack of oxygen.
The two couples are too absorbed in each other to pay us any mind, and my father turns to start a conversation with the elderly gentleman seated with us.
“Eric,” a voice booms out. My father stiffens in his seat. All the relaxation I saw settling over him moments ago disappears in an instant as a loud, boisterous man makes his way over to us. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Sal.”