Page 3 of What's in a Kiss?

“You didn’t.” Masha reaches for one of the hot, floppy sacks and gives me a thwack with it. “These bring back so many memories.”

“PMS Eve,” I say, referring to the once-a-month holiday my mom invented when I got my period. Throughout my teenyears, Masha, my mother, and I were all on the same cycle. We were that close.

“Remember when Lorena used to make us those awful vegan nachos?” Masha says. “She’d insist we lay on the couch in your den with these heating pads over our laps, while she force-fed us the entire John Hughes catalog.”

“For all our bitching and moaning,” I say, “thatwasan important cinematic education.”

“But we didn’t understand any of it.” Masha laughs. “We thought the Valium scene inSixteen Candleswas just what happened when a woman got married.”

I laugh, then realize Masha’s gone quiet. And a little pale. She slides her pole into one of the holders attached to the stern and pops open a can of PBR. “That’s going to be me two days from now.”

I feel the window narrowing before Masha wedding-spirals. I’ve got to make her laugh. I slump against her, impersonating Molly Ringwald’s wasted on-screen sister walking down the aisle: “Looovve the teapot.”

Masha cracks a smile, indulging me, but she’s clearly on her way to the fetal position. Her eyes clamp shut as she hugs her knees. And she’s rocking.

“What if it’s a disaster? What if my mom makes a scene? What if I fall apart?”

I put my pole and beer down, take her shoulders gently, and look into her hazel eyes. “Masha. My love. I’ll be at your side. No matter what. You can do this. You and Eli are beautiful together. Your future sparkles with enthusiastic, introverted love.”

“But what if...” She trails off and we gaze at each other.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. She means the rest of it, the life that comes afterI Do.

Divorce, infidelity, sudden death, unemployment, depression—every wrecking ball in the book found our nuclear families at some point while we were growing up. There’s no use pretending we’ll escape adulthood unscathed. But where Masha can take to her bed on these subjects, I become defiant, like,Life, do your worst. I dare you to flatten me.

I know a huge portion of my strength comes from having Masha and my mom in my corner. Without them, a flat tire would lay me low. But with their support, I could navigate a four-tire-blowout on the Autobahn, backward and upside down. Lucking into having Lorena as my mother and Masha as my BBS are the great gifts of my life.

Which is how I know that right now, my job as maid of honor is to dish out every support Masha needs.

“Do you want to do a visualization?” I ask. Mash and I got in the habit of doing these last year, before our intramural baseball playoffs. Since we won the championship, I know the technique works.

“Good idea,” Masha says, casting her line again, watching her lure vanish into the sea.

“Okay.” I close my eyes, feeling a nibble on my line. I jerk the rod, but the fish escapes. I wait for the right visualization to come to mind, and smile when it does. “Imagine: Eli’s in a white studio, alone...”

I pause as the details find me. Masha’s groom-to-be is a ballet dancer with the Los Angeles Ballet. The way the man looks in his tights ought to be illegal.

“The curve of flesh,” I intone. “The tension in the fabric of his tights—”

Masha laughs, breaking my focus. “First of all, Eli would die if he heard you right now. Second, you’re doing really well, but I think I need a more immediate visualization. Like, Saturday? The ceremony? Me standing before the altar, not pulling aRunaway Bride?”

“Yes, I see it!” I close my eyes and reset. “You’re standing at the altar. Your veil rests perfectly on your hair, which isn’t too poufy. The eccentric yogi officiant is fashionably late, enough to give you a thrill. Oh, but look, he’s here now. In the warm Santa Monica sand, Eli stands beside you—”

“No tights.”

“Completely tightless,” I say. “His tux looks great, and he’s gazing at you like Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet looking at his dad.”

“You’re so weird.”

“I’m right behind you—”

“Yes, boo,” she says. “I see you.”

“I’m holding your bouquet, and I’ve got your back. Always.”

I feel Masha reach for my hand and squeeze. “Thank you, Liv. This is good. Maybe I can do this.”

Never one to be left out of group love, Gram Parsons barks and kisses both our hands.

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