June 2006, New York, New York

By Sebastian Millo

Halfway down the aisle, and I’m ready to bolt.

I should have said something. My pulse quickens. The priest gives me a reassuring nod. If he only knew.

I watch the groom stare at the ceiling. Sarah’s walking in sync to her wedding march. Beads of sweat are forming on the back of my neck. My palms are sweaty. I forget to fix her train. I can’t; I’m too fixated on the long aisle in front of me and the consequences of running out.

We’re four minutes into the ceremony. I’m imagining grabbing Sarah’s hand and yanking her out of there. The groom’s asking the priest how much longer this will take. Any remaining hope is ripped away. Sarah’s marrying a schmuck.

As the organizer of our group, Sarah had maintained relationships with seven wild friends since college. So when the bridesmaids and I arrived, and she was all over the page, we blamed it on wedding jitters. We completed all the typical bridal things (dresses, mani/pedi, lunch) and ended the afternoon by picking her groom up at a bar.

I’d met him two years prior at another wedding. Rude and pretentious, he complained about the five-hour drive, critiqued the open bar, and sat in his chair, frowning, as Sarah danced with her friends. And today, as he scolded Sarah for being late to pick him up, ignored her when she talked to him, and stole the car keys from her purse, I remembered why my first impression of him was not a lasting one.

Back at their apartment, Sarah’s groom questioned where her friends were supposed to get dressed for the rehearsal dinner, yelled at Sarah for inviting us there, and called the bathroom off-limits. He wanted to get ready without three girls gabbing. So Sarah showed us the kitchen. Small and cramped, it was where we were to get ready.

We dressed in silence, plugged straightening irons in beside the microwave, and used our reflection in Sarah’s silver teapot to reapply lip gloss and eyeliner. I heard the shower running, so I snuck into their bedroom, looking for a mirror, when she ran in, shouting, “Get out! He can’t come out and find you in here!”

My stomach dropped. I wanted to shout back, “What the hell are you doing here? Can’t you see you’re about to marry a jerk? Is this what you want for your life?” But I didn’t. I walked back into the kitchen and remained silent. How could I, the maid of honor, risk ruining Sarah’s day?

The morning of the wedding, I’d cried in the bathroom and considered faking a disease. But I did my hair, applied my makeup, helped Sarah into her dress and downed several glasses of champagne. The photographer had arrived, and the limo was ready.

Everyone got in the oversize car. Sarah’s groom sat with his groomsmen. She sat with her parents, and I watched for a change in her expression. Was she upset that he didn’t sit with her? I couldn’t tell. But after prewedding photos began, I caught something.

Sarah’s groom complained right away. He sighed, paced, told the photographer to hurry up so he could start drinking, and kicked the train from Sarah’s dress out of his way. I watched.

It wasn’t until I caught Sarah grab his hand and tell him to knock it off that I saw something else: she turned to face the camera, and a split second before the flash, her face was blank. Was she just as scared of admitting that she’d made a mistake and walking away as I was of telling her that she should?

An hour later, Sarah’s saying her vows. I’m playing our escape in my head. We jump into a red convertible, the top’s down, and Sarah’s head falls back in laughter. She throws her bouquet in the air and pulls her honeymoon tickets from her purse, saying, “Let’s go! For old times’ sake!”

My fantasy is interrupted when Sarah’s groom says, with a smile on his face, “I take you, Tarah” instead of, “I take you Sarah.”

Sweat rolls down my back. I squeeze my eyes shut. Someone do something. I can no longer see the red car, so I open my eyes. The bride and groom are walking down the aisle. The wedding is over. I did nothing to stop it.

Sarah never danced at her wedding. She left early because her groom was too drunk to stand. And, as I checked into my hotel room, eager to throw myself in bed and forget the day, the phone in my room was already ringing. It was Sarah. She needed me to come to their suite right away; her groom had passed out.

I arrived silently, taking in the scene: the bride still in her beautiful white dress, and the groom passed out cold on the hotel room floor, still in his tux. I helped Sarah remove the bobbypins from her hair, take off her dress, and find an extra blanket to cover up the sleeping groom.

We stood in the room, silently watching him, until I turned to say goodnight. I’m not sure what else she needed that night. I’m not sure what she said. But as I hugged her goodbye, my throat tight, I whispered, “I’ll always be here if you need me.”

Sarah hugged me tighter. “I know,” she whispered back.

Sebastian Millo is a freelance writer. She currently lives on the beach in Long Island with her Irish-Italian dog and husband. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, July 5th, 2007 | Email This Post

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