I left the bathroom and grabbed another glass of champagne, which I promptly downed.
I woke up in pain. My head hurt, which I assumed was the champagne, but so did my arms, shoulders, and neck.
“Good morning,” my grandmother said, observing me from the room’s chaise lounge, a glass of orange juice in her hand. I cringed and sat up, rubbing my forehead.
“Everything hurts.”
“I should say so. That’s quite a sunburn you got.”
I looked down at my arms in alarm. They were bright red, with pale stripes where my dress had been. It hadn’t occurred to me to put sunscreen on for the ceremony, which was outside, as were the pictures and reception. “Oh no,” I said weakly, sinking back down against the pillows. “Caryn is going to murder me.”
“Who’s Caryn?”
“Not my girlfriend, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s getting married in three weeks and I’m a bridesmaid in her wedding and she was very clear about no tan lines.”
“I don’t think that’s within her control anymore,” my grandmother said wryly. She held out her glass to offer me a sip. “Hair of the dog?”
Apparently it wasn’t just orange juice in her cup. I shook my head, which I instantly regretted, and hoped a little booze would make her more docile for the trip home, rather than more belligerent. Then I went to take a very cool shower.
I read through the latest notifications on my blog over breakfast. There were a lot of them. I was finally picking up some steam and would hopefully be generating some revenue from it too. One person even commented that I should be writing a book. Well, that’s an idea, I thought. Not now, of course. But someday. Maybe.
I looked around the table at my family. Everyone looked as queasy as I did, and mine was far from the only sunburn. Amy burst into tears when my grandmother told her she looked like a lobster.
“What are you so upset about? You have more than a month until your wedding. You won’t be burned by then,” my grandmother said, throwing up her hands as my mother comforted Amy. She turned to me. “This is why you’re so much more fun, Joan. You can take a joke.”
My father caught my eye, clearly holding in a laugh. “Yeah, Joan,” he said, chuckling.
I glared at him over my coffee, then went back to my phone.
Alex texted me while I was reading comments. So? Sock or no sock?
No sock. But she tried to fix me up with a kid I BABYSAT for.
Nice. Did it work?
I responded with a puking emoji.
Guess that’s a no then. What time do you get home today?
Five.
Wanna grab a drink to decompress?
No more drinks! I sent the emoji with the girl holding her arms across her face in an X shape.
He sent a laughing emoji. Oh, all-inclusive resorts. You’ve claimed another victim.
Dinner instead? I have no food at my apartment.
Sure. Text me when you land.
CHAPTER THIRTY
With Jake and Madison’s wedding done, I entered the homestretch of the final six weeks until Megan’s wedding.
The next event was Megan’s bridal shower and bachelorette party on the Saturday after Jake’s wedding. My sunburn began to fade to tan, and I spent an inordinate amount of time googling natural-looking self-tanners to fill in the white spots before Caryn’s wedding. I couldn’t afford another screwup there.
The shower went smoothly. I arrived two hours early to help set everything up with the rest of the bridesmaids, and the weather cooperated enough to allow us to congregate on the patio by the newly opened pool. I wore carefully applied SPF 70 on my tanned areas and nothing on the white lines to try to even everything out naturally.
“What’s this?” Megan asked when she got to my gift. Claire and her husband had bought a present together, and the rest of the bridesmaids chipped in to buy from the registry, but I had done my own thing.
“Open it,” I told her.
It was a giant basket filled with mementos of our years of friendship, but designed to help her transition to the next stage of her life. I gave her framed pictures, along with matching empty frames to be filled with pictures from the wedding. A mug with a picture of the two of us together on it with the text “Sisters before Misters.” Three wineglasses, labeled “Mr.,” “Mrs.,” and “Third Wheel.” And finally, at the bottom of the basket, a gift-wrapped Snoopy lunch box—the clone of hers from second grade—that I bought off eBay. I had tied a gift tag to the handle and written on it, For an eventual daughter, when she needs to find a lifelong best friend.