Playing all night had been a sort of ceremony before the ceremony. A big nod to whatever force had decided to make me fall in love with music enough to do this in the first place.
Rita handed me the final tip as Dante sniffed around at the empty Accu-Chek boxes and the clothes, in varying shades of denim or black, that covered every surface.
“My life’s about to change today, Rita,” I said, blowing out a puff.
“Yeah?” she replied, standing up to call Dante with a whistle. “Good. I try to tell myself that every morning.”
An hour later, I was ready. I had checked my blood sugar, and eaten a potato and white bean spicy scramble. I’d found my phone in a pile of laundry. I’d even put on a little mascara and some lip color. It wasn’t until I got in the Subaru that I realized what my wedding clothes would be: the same Kinks T-shirt and jean shorts I wore yesterday. My hair was in a bun that would probably fall out soon. My Converses were unlaced.
I ran back upstairs and found a heavy cotton black sleeveless dress with a deep V-neck. A bit revealing, and it smelled a little like old beer, but it didn’t have stains on it.
“Shoes, shoes, shoes,” I whispered to myself. Then I remembered I had a pair of red heels from when I was Marge Simpson for Halloween. I slipped them on and looked in the full-length mirror on the back of my closet. Fine, no bun, I decided, and took my hair down.
It took me a second to find myself in the feminine figure.
Then I realized that in this dress, the antler tattoo just above my left breast was visible. A protector.
Oh, there I was.
Luke
Apparently, to the hair-sprayed, aging waitress, it seemed totally normal for two men in tuxes to be eating eggs Benedict at seven in the morning, one of them flipping the box of a Walmart-bought wedding ring, the other furiously taking pictures of his companion, of the menu, of the ring, of the row of empty booths, and, within full view of the waitress, of the waitress herself.
Once she got here, Cassie, Frankie, and I were going to lay down the details of the nine months to come. Frankie was documenting everything as evidence just in case, God forbid, the legitimacy of the marriage ever had to hold up in court.
“They’ll pick apart every detail,” he was saying, showing me the time-stamped captions to each photo. “How you met, the proposal, everything. So I’m your witness. Look excited,” he finished, pointing the camera at me.
I raised my eyebrows, tried to open my eyes wider.
Frankie reviewed the photo. “I said ‘excited,’ not like someone just stuck their thumb up your butt.”
“Shut up.”
“There’s a smile.” He took another photo. I pulled my Moleskine out of my army bag and set it near my empty plate, ready to exchange lives with Cassie. Or “Cass,” as Frankie said I should call her. That still didn’t feel right.
The door to the diner opened, and Cassie walked in. My eyes were drawn toward the antler on her breastbone, visible in her low-cut dress. Her black hair flowed in waves from her face, blending near her shoulders with the S-shaped silhouette of her body under her dress. It made me nervous, how beautiful she was. Beautiful people had one-track minds. You learn that in adolescence, when looks start to matter. Everyone steps out of the way of beautiful people just for the pleasure of watching them pass. They never have to learn how to make do, how to compromise, never have to learn how to find their way into the back doors of places. And this was definitely a back door.
“What?” she said, approaching the booth. I realized I was staring at her.
“Nothing.”
Frankie stood. “Cass!” He stood to kiss both her cheeks. He looked at me, jerking his head.
I stood, too, towering over her a bit. I bent to kiss her cheek. Frankie snapped a photo.
We sat. Frankie and I on one side, Cassie on the other.
“Just coffee. Black,” Cassie said to the waitress. She turned to me. “You get that?”
I opened my Moleskine, finding a blank spot to scribble it down. Then it seemed ridiculous. “You really think we need that tiny of a detail?”
“Maybe not, but you’ll need this one,” she said, leaning forward. “I have diabetes. Type two. Hence the medical bills.”
I remembered that. “And what exactly does that mean?” I started. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Well, basically my pancreas doesn’t know how to break down sugar in my blood. So I have to watch what I eat so I don’t get hypoglycemic. Or, I guess, pass out from low blood sugar. Like after I eat a meal that has a lot of simple sugars.” She pointed to a piece of pie in one of the display cases. “Or if I don’t eat snacks regularly, or don’t eat a full meal, or if I eat later than usual.” She was putting out her fingers. “Or if I drink alcohol without eating any food, et cetera.”