Page 40 of Best Woman

Remarkably, Aiden is the first person I run into. He’s outside the tall, ornately carved doors of the sanctuary, filling a wicker basket with black yarmulkes. I pick one up and look inside, where Aiden and Rachel’s names and the date are stitched in gold.

“I’m so glad I don’t have to wear one of these,” I say. “It would ruin my hair.”

Aiden throws his arms around me. “Oh my god, I’m getting married today.”

“I know,” I say, squeezing him back, letting it sink in for real. My little brother is getting married. Fuck.

I pull back and smile at my brother, who is getting married today. Fuck. “You look great.”

He does, in his dark suit, hair combed back, though he is a little pale, with dark circles under his eyes.

“Can I zhuzh you up a little?” I ask.

He nods frantically. “Please. This week has been so stressful and on top of it I ran out of my hyaluronic acid serum. Do you have any concealer?”

“Of course. I knew you’d need a touch-up.”

Aiden leads me to the groom’s appointed dressing area, and a bolt of déjà vu hits me as I remember standing in this very room sixteen years ago, fiddling with the tallit my grandmother had made me, going over my haftarah portion one last time.

I stumble around giving everyone hugs and complimenting their identical suits.

Ben looks especially handsome in his, with his hair tucked behind his ears.

He looks very grown-up, but also exactly like the boy I’ve been kissing for the past decade.

“You look amazing,” he says after giving me a tight, warm hug.

“Thanks. You too.”

“Do you guys want the room for a bit?” asks Derek, one of the groomsmen. “We can go find something to do for, hmm, how long do you need, Ben? Six minutes?”

“ I’d need at least nine,” I shoot back.

“Please, everyone, it’s my wedding day. Can we not?” Aiden says.

“You’re the boss,” Derek says.

“But only today,” I say, searching through my bag—HannahG, American Music Awards, last year—for the concealer Mom purchased the other day. “Tomorrow you are back to being mine to torment.”

“Did you guys know that Julia once shot a staple gun at me?” Aiden asks the group. “I was seven.”

“Shut up,” I fire back. “You were nine. You’re lucky this is a little too yellow for me. You need to wear more sunscreen.”

“Fuck off, I wear SPF fifty! I’ve just been playing a lot more golf than usual,” Aiden says, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed like a model being prepped for fashion week. “I got a hole-in-one today!”

“Your life is my hell.” I start dabbing a light layer of makeup under his eyes.

“I moved the ball while he wasn’t looking,” Ben whispers into my ear as he leans against the table next to us.

“I’m dying to sit down but I don’t want to crease,” he says at normal volume, shifting uncomfortably in his dress shoes.

It’s nice to know that his level of perfection isn’t easy for him to maintain.

I roll my eyes. “OK, diva.”

“You look amazing,” he says, bumping my hip with his. “Sure you don’t want to take the guys up on that offer to clear the room?”

“Not really,” I say, tapping the concealer under Aiden’s eyes. “But maybe before the reception?”

“Ugh,” Aiden says below us.

Eventually the testosterone starts to become overwhelming, so I escape for a moment of quiet out the side doors of the temple building, where a large courtyard connects the synagogue with the four-story building where I attended Hebrew school until I was fifteen.

The courtyard is empty and blissfully quiet, so I walk in a slow circle around the mosaic laid into the ground depicting colorful scenes from the Torah: Moses posed in front of the Red Sea, waves parted to allow the Jews passage.

Passover has always been my favorite Jewish holiday.

Hanukkah is lame primarily because it isn’t Christmas, Purim is overwhelming.

Sukkot is nice enough, but Passover is so rich with ritual, tradition, and food.

There is something about sitting around and telling a story, acting out its dramas in the same way they’d been acted out for generations, dipping the parsley in the salt water, hiding and hunting for the afikomen.

I always feel connected to something bigger than myself, sitting around that table with the people I love, people who are as familiar to me as the traditions we share.

That’s what today is about. As nerve-racking as this week has been, with emotional land mines at every turn, it isn’t about me.

It’s about celebrating life and love and history and the future.

I don’t believe in a lot of it, can’t ever see myself doing it, but I understand why Aiden wants to, and I’m happy that he’s getting what he wants.

I can do that for him today, and let everything else wait until tomorrow.

I rejoin Aiden and the groomsmen just in time for Aiden and Rachel’s first look and an ensuing photo session.

We pack into a small but well-appointed room so the happy couple can sign the ketubah.

It’s packed and noisy in the antechamber.

I feel sticky under my dress and we haven’t even gotten to the ceremony .

The bra my mom forced on me is uncomfortable, the underwire digging into my chest, although I have to admit it’s doing wonders for my boobs.

Rachel looks gorgeous in a silky, lacy gown I would never have expected she’d wear.

It’s very vintage and glamorous and sexy while still being modest and traditional.

I’d always thought she was pretty, but now I see what Aiden sees.

She is gorgeous and glowing, and she smiles every time she looks at my brother.

Today is the happiest day of her life, and that’s all I want it to be for her.

Before I know it, we’re back in the groom’s quarters, and I can hear the sanctuary filling up through the thin walls. The groomsmen are passing a bottle around, one I wave off as Derek offers me a swig. I cross to where Aiden stands checking himself in the mirror.

“Don’t name your kids something embarrassing,” I say.

“And don’t get a minivan. Go on lots of vacations but only to interesting places, like Copenhagen or Tokyo or Mexico City.

Do not wear Just Married T-shirts at Disney.

” His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Don’t lie.

Don’t cheat. Don’t vacation exclusively on cruises.

Don’t go to bed angry. Don’t be one of those married couples who only hang out with other married people.

” I draw closer behind him, fixing and fiddling with the back of his hair.

“Tell her how you feel, even if it scares you. Tell her you love her all the time. Mean it.”

“I will,” he says. “But we already have the T-shirts.”