Page 4

SYMPHONY

M arietta peers out of the window onto the parking lot of the Victoria House, a historic home that has become a coveted wedding venue on the north side of Miami.

“Do you think he’ll ride in on a motorcycle?” she asks.

She means Diesel.

I shrug and turn away from her like it makes no difference to me if I’m jilted on Bailey’s wedding day. Jenna and Marietta don’t have dates, either.

Bailey is having photos taken with Grammy Alma, the matriarch of Rhett’s family, who places the veil on her head. It’s lovely, the octogenarian grandmother of the groom standing in for Bailey’s mother, who died years ago.

I sniffle back a few tears. I love weddings. The dresses. The flowers. The music. The cake. I cry over vows and perk up at the toasts. I love the moment when the groom sees the bride coming up the aisle. When everyone turns to see what he’s looking at.

The cute little kids tossing petals are the best. And I’m giddy when someone dresses up the couple’s dog and walks them in.

It’s all good. All of it.

No date required.

Marietta turns from the window. “He’s got fifteen minutes to get here.”

I huff in annoyance. “It’s not like he’s walking me down the aisle. Besides, he’ll probably show up in one of those Leaky Skull T-shirts and his weird metal chain.”

Marietta plops down onto a satin ottoman in front of me, the tulle of her pale yellow dress tufting around her like a cloud. “Do you think he’ll bring some friends?”

Jenna shakes her head, like she can’t believe her friend is still mooning over her failed biker romance. “Still sad you didn’t meet Mr. Wrong?”

Marietta pushes her palm against the base of her updo. She’s paranoid it’s already falling. “You all dragged me out of there without so much as getting a ride.”

Jenna sits delicately on the satin bench next to me, a powder puff in pale blue. I’m in pink. We look like a box of macarons, but nobody complained one bit to Bailey. It’s her dream wedding in a pastel rainbow.

Grammy steps back from Bailey, and we all turn our attention to the bride.

“You look gorgeous,” Jenna says.

“Perfection,” Marietta agrees.

I pang with jealousy. Bailey is my best friend, but it’s hard not to twinge with at least a sliver of envy. We’re taking the same poli-sci classes for our master’s degree program, and she’s always the professor’s favorite.

Plus, she got the hot guy, her former boss, no less.

And she’s skinny and perfect.

I try to correct my thinking. You do not look like a cream puff in your dress. You are strong and capable and smart.

It doesn’t matter that your primary boyfriend for the last few years has come with a portable charger.

He zzzzztttss a little too fast for my taste, but it’s embarrassing to get another one.

How are you supposed to know how strong they are when you buy them?

It’s not like you get to test them where it counts.

And it doesn’t matter if Diesel comes to the wedding or not. Nobody wants a blackmailed date.

Even if he’s a hot, tatted biker bar owner.

Bailey rises from her chair, and we stand with her. She opted not to have a maid of honor to give us all equal standing. Rhett has his two brothers and his sister on his side.

Time for me to do my job. “You look wonderful,” I tell Bailey, leaning forward to give her a hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

The photographer snaps shot after shot. I’m walking in first, so even though there isn’t a pecking order, well, I’m first .

Grammy picks up her purse. “I best find my seat. Welcome to the family, Bailey. As my son Sherman always says, ‘Every Pickle’s a Pickle.’”

Jenna and I glance at each other, trying not to giggle. Bailey is marrying into a deli empire. Even though Rhett is technically an Armstrong, the Pickle family is a huge extended family based around the restaurant chain and the media offshoots.

And right in front of us is the woman who started it all with a tiny deli in Brooklyn. No matter what they named themselves, she was the original force behind their success.

Bailey kisses her powdered cheek. “I’ll see you inside.”

Grammy heads out, and it’s only the four of us with the photographer.

“Dad will be here in a second to walk me in,” Bailey says. “I can’t believe this day finally got here!”

Marietta starts crying, which is typical. I pull a tissue from a box on the makeup table and pass it to her. “It’s all right.”

Marietta nods.

Then we hear a roar outside.

The four of us exchange a glance, and my heart takes off in a gallop fit for the Kentucky Derby.

Marietta dashes for the window. “I bet it’s him!”

I pretend to be unaffected, heading for the side table where the bridesmaid bouquets are waiting.

Marietta lets out a squeal. “It’s him! It’s him!”

If I had my smart watch on, it would tell me to take a meditation moment because of my pulse rate. I can scarcely catch my breath. My body quivers, remembering the feel of him against me while we were stuck together.

Then the slide of his knife expertly up my thigh, slicing through the spandex.

Sweat pops across my brow. No, no, no. No perspiration right before the ceremony!

“He’s pulled up right in front,” Marietta says. “He’s taking off his helmet!”

I want to see, but I nonchalantly lift my bouquet and examine it. Roses. Daisies. Baby’s breath.

Jenna must have moved to the window because she says, “He’s wearing a suit! And shiny shoes!”

There’s a rustle, and I can’t help but turn. Bailey has also crossed the room. “He cleans up nice,” she says.

I can’t bear it. I spin around and rush to the window.

And there he is, clipping his helmet to his seat. He actually rode a motorcycle to a wedding.

God, he wears a suit like it was made for him. His shoulders are broad in the charcoal jacket. The pants hug his thighs.

Something glints.

He’s wearing the skull chain. I spot the glint of it at the base of his jacket. It’s not bar branding. He likes it.

Diesel runs his hand through his hair, then tosses his head to shake the layers into place. Nobody in the window is breathing, not even Bailey. He’s that beautiful.

The door to the room opens, and we all jump.

It’s Bailey’s dad.

Shit, right. The wedding.

“My gorgeous girl!” He holds out his arms.

Bailey hurries over to him, and the photographer clicks shots. Marietta and Jenna drag themselves away from the window.

But I linger for a second. It’s nice watching him when he doesn’t know I’m looking.

He shoves a keychain in his pocket, examining the building as if he’s searching for the door.

His face turns this way, then, oh, shit, I think he sees me!

I press myself against the wall.

My chest heaves as I wait and wait. But when I finally peer back out, he’s still there, a funny grin on his face. He waves, then heads for the door.

He saw me!

Nobody’s paying any attention to me, not with the wedding so close. Bailey links her arms through her father’s. The ring bearer and the flower girl are ushered in by their mothers.

Jenna and Marietta pick up their bouquets, bending down for one last check in the mirror.

But I’m totally beside myself.

He’s here! He came!

Diesel!

Holy shit!