Lauren arrived at the head of the aisle a short while later. She was clearly glowing. All along, she had been. The dress fit her like it was fused to her body, and her hair was swept up with tiny pearls that glinted in the sun whenever she moved. The lace was straightforward but expensive.
When she walked down the aisle on her uncle’s arm, she looked like a princess straight out of a fairy tale. Her father had died, and no one had thought to ask if I may want that honor. She smiled and wept as she glanced around at the guests. Then they landed on me for a moment.
Nobody was smiling. Avoid nodding. She swiftly looked away, as if to confirm that the family dog was safely in its box.
It was a traditional vow. steady voices. The preacher pronounced them husband and wife, and the ovation was warm and genuine, as family applause should be. I clapped too, because that’s what you do. I praised the sister who hadn’t contacted me in five years and the groom I had never met.
But as I watched them kiss, a cold knowledge settled in my chest. I was more than just a guest. I was a prop. I was the cautionary tale, the “what not to become” that highlighted Lauren’s magnificence while I sat in the back row.
The reception went outside under a large white tent that was decked out with hundreds of tiny fairy lights. It was certainly beautiful. Long tables groaned beneath silver platters of prawns and sliced meat. Champagne flowed from crystal fountains. A string quartet’s gentle, unmemorable music mingled in with the visitors’ background talk.
I kept a glass of sparkling water toward the edge of the crowd so that people could walk past me for a bit. Looking at the uniform with wide eyes, a few of my old high school pals stopped by and asked me serious, innocent things like whether I had a pistol or if being a woman in the army was “scary.”
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