Page 63 of Confessions of the Funny Fat Friend

And as I watched Mara get eyeshadow patted on and lipstick painted across her lips, I couldn’t help but hope it would be me soon. Me next. Because I was ready for that feeling she described. I wanted to settle. I wanted peace. I wanted my own family for Saturday afternoon barbeques and sports games on the weekends and home-cooked dinners on weeknights. And most of all, I loved the idea of writing my future with a partner at my side. Someone who would lift me up when I was weak and someone I could provide shelter to in any storm.

But today wasn’t about me. It was about my best friend. I got her mimosas whenever she ran empty, added polish to a nail that chipped, and when it came time, I’d hold her wedding dress so she could pee. That’s what friends did.

The wedding planner, a woman younger than us by a few years, came in and said, “It’s time to start getting your dresses on, ladies. Twenty minutes to showtime.”

Mara, Tess, Birdie, and I all exchanged glances. Today was the day, and now was the time.

We helped Mara into her dress first, sliding the tulle skirts over her head and shoulders, then flaring them out to the natural-toned wood floor. The hairdresser slipped the veil in her hair, and we stared.

She looked beautiful.

But more than that, she lookedhappy.

With the time left over, we put on our bridesmaid dresses, taking turns zipping up the backs. Birdie handed me my bouquet of white and green flowers and foliage. And I stared at my reflection.

The woman looking at me in the mirror wasn’t the funny fat friend.

She was beautiful.

She was happy.

And she smiled. Because now I knew when Tyler looked at me and saw something beautiful, I wouldn’t disagree.

35

Tyler

Gravel crunched underfoot as I walked across the parking lot with other guests toward a tall glass building. Past the eaves, I could see acres of rolling grass and trees. The sun shone down from overhead—the perfect day for a wedding.

I’d been to tons of weddings in Texas, and most of them were more casual than this. Everyone around me was dressed in black-tie attire. Back home, most of the grooms wore jeans and boots. Their good jeans, but still. Lots of the ceremonies happened in little churches and the receptions were moved to a shop building that had been cleaned up for the event.

When I walked inside, Derek greeted me, holding his little baby in a light purple dress.

“Got wrangled into being an usher?” I asked.

He grinned. “It’s not so bad with my little helper.” The baby couldn’t have been much older than A’yisha, except his little girl had far less hair.

“She’s beautiful,” I said honestly.

“I think so too,” he said. People were piling up behind me, so he added, “Either side, my man. We’re all family today.”

I grinned, walking past him. I sat on the edge of a row toward the back so I wouldn’t take up the spot of someone more important than me and waited, listened, watched people filter into the seats around me and talk about the bride and groom.

I picked up snippets about the television show Mara was writing for, heard about how Jonas’s virtual accounting firm continued to grow. And most of all, I waited to see Henrietta.

And then the music started, cutting all chatter. A man holding a Bible walked to the front, followed by Steve and Cohen. Then Jonas walked up the aisle, an older woman dressed in a purple gown on his arm. He kissed her cheek before leaving her sitting in the front row.

As if my body sensed her, I turned, looking to the aisle. Henrietta approached, moving purposefully in a floor-length dress. Soft fabric swished around her perfect hips with each step, and the bouquet she held at her chest only accentuated her cleavage. But her face stole the show. She had a soft peach blush on her cheeks and her full lips were glossy. And the light in her eyes, in her smile, made her shine.

Our eyes met, and her smile grew, deepened, and for a moment, all the air was gone from the room. All the people had vanished. It was her and me and the sound of the pounding in my chest.

And then she passed me, and the view got even better.

Shit, my girl looked like a million bucks.

My stomach dropped. My girl.

She wasn’t my girl. Not officially.

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