Speechless. Sandy/Yvonne Rideout/Collins
me up and, judging by their smirks, they don’t consider me much of a threat. Lola pretends to burn one of them in the butt with her cigarette and we both make faces behind them. We have forgotten the camera.
Emma winds up for the pitch and the video slips into slow motion. The bouquet shoots out over the crowd. The camera captures my expression as I assess the bouquet’s trajectory. Closer…closer… The two youngsters jockey for position, elbowing me. I step backward to avoid them. Arms outstretched, they hurl themselves into the air. You can see the hope on my face: this time I am finally going to miss it! But no, the teens careen into each other. One stumbles off her platforms and into Lola, who “accidentally” spills red wine on the teen’s tight white dress (never wear white to a wedding). The bouquet travels like a missile over their perfectly coiffed heads, my hands go up and…yes! It’s a direct hit, ladies and gentlemen. Turning, I hold the bouquet high and curtsy for the crowd. The teens check out my butt and sneer, confirming my suspicion that there is no good angle in a yellow stretch-poly frock.
I offer the photographer a big, fake smile before stepping to the sidelines to make way for the single men. The D.J. cues the stripper music and Bob, the groom, removes the garter from Emma’s leg and snaps it into the air. There’s a flash of blue as it streaks across the dance floor, the camera panning to follow its path. Over the heads of the single men it goes, until its flight is suddenly arrested…by my forehead. It snaps my head back with its force, then drops into the bridal bouquet I’m still holding. Heads are swiveling. No one knows where the garter landed. The videographer speaks up: “Libby caught it!”
Stunned, I pluck it from the bouquet and hold it aloft. The single guys turn as one and race toward me. There’s a brief struggle as they grab my arms, my waist, my legs and hoist me into the air. I stop resisting when I realize that the more I thrash, the less coverage my dress provides. The D.J. plays the Village People’s “Macho Man” and the guys pump me up and down to the beat. As the song ends, they deposit me—quite gently, really, when you consider the trays of tequila slammers they’ve consumed—before the bride and groom. I surrender the garter with a dizzy flourish. Bob snaps the garter again; this time a tall guy grabs it casually out of the air. Emma grins in my general direction before whispering something in the D.J.’s ear. He steps to the mike: “Would Libby McIssac please step forward again? Tim Kennedy will now place the garter on Libby’s leg and the two will share a special dance.”
I look stricken, but Tim is smiling as he walks toward me and bows. He leads me to a chair in the center of the dance floor. I lift my own bridesmaid gown and place my foot on the chair. Tim slips the garter over my foot and slides it up my leg. The video does not capture the snag in my thirty-dollar stockings.
“Let’s give Libby and Tim a hand, everyone,” the D.J. shouts. “We’ll see them united in wedded bliss sometime soon!” (I hate this guy.)
The camera follows us briefly as we start dancing, then finally cuts back to the bride.
“Well, Libby,” Tim says, “are you always this popular at weddings?”
“I’m afraid so. I can’t help competing with the bride for attention,” I say. I’m starting to breathe again, but I can’t meet his eyes.
“Very bad form.” He’s smiling and although I’m staring over his shoulder, I can’t help but notice it’s a nice smile.
“Not as bad as beating a bride senseless with her own bouquet. She deserves it for this dress alone!”
“Oh no, it’s very becoming,” he says, laughing. When I roll my eyes, he adds, “I’ve seen worse.”
My blood pressure must be entering normal range, because it’s starting to register that Tim is quite handsome. He has that dark-haired, blue-eyed combination I can never resist. Eventually I summon the nerve to look right at him, and miracle of miracles, I’m staring into his forehead. Without these stupid yellow pumps, he’s got an inch on me. Maybe Fate isn’t heartless after all.
“Let me get you a drink—and some ice for that welt on your forehead,” Tim offers as the song ends.
He pulls a chair out for me before heading to the bar. He probably feels sorry for me, but hell, I can live with that. Besides, I need a few minutes to recover before joining the bridal party again. My left foot has begun to tingle; the damned garter is cutting off the circulation. I remove it with more uncharitable thoughts about Emma. I’m mad enough to march over there and swing her around by her veil. Instead, I take a few cleansing breaths and smile over at Tim in the bar line. He smiles back. That’s when it occurs to me that Bouquet 13 could be my lucky one. It’s a cut above any other I’ve landed, the rosebuds being a deep red and fully two inches long. At least Emma had the decency not to get a substandard minibouquet for tossing, as brides used to, before my fame grew and I started making demands. Now I tell them straight out, if you’re going to put me through this, I expect the real thing.
My nose is buried in the bouquet when Tim returns carrying two highballs of bourbon and a bag of ice. I drop the flowers on the table, take the ice and hold it to my forehead.
“Technically, this belongs to you,” I say, offering the garter to him.
“Don’t you want to keep it as a memento? The bouquet won’t last forever, you know.”
“I won’t have any trouble remembering this evening. Emma will torment me with the video for decades to come.”
“What are friends for?”
The adrenaline is draining away faster than I can replace it with bourbon. Tim takes the ice pack back and wraps it in a linen napkin. I hadn’t even noticed the water dripping down my arm and onto my five-hundred-dollar yellow dress. Spinning the garter on my finger and smiling as coyly as a girl with a bespattered décolletage can, I ask, “Your first?”
“Yeah. Every guy dreams of this.” Uh-oh. He’s funny too.
“All those years in Little League culminate in this one perfect moment.”
“I imagine you train constantly yourself.”
“Not at all, I’m a natural.”
“Care to share your stats?”
“A lady never reveals her age nor her bouquet quota,” I demur.
“So what do you do between bridesmaid gigs?”
It’s come to this so soon! I hate talking about my job. Tim is the cutest guy I’ve met in a year and I can’t bear to tell him I’m a government hack. It will suck the life out of the conversation and I’m having such fun. Maybe I can deflect his question with idle banter?
“I’m writing a book,” I say.
“Really? What’s the story?”
“Well, it’s a combination of memoir and how-to, based on my extensive experience as a bridesmaid.”
“I’ll put it on my Christmas list,” he says, smiling.
“You’ll laugh, you’ll cry… And how about you?”
“Yeah, I’m writing a book too, isn’t everyone? It’s about my career as a dog trainer.”
I can tell he’s kidding, but I’m not sure if he knows that I am, too. “Breed of choice?”
“Jack Russells—the toughest breed on the planet. The first chapter is about my technique for establishing I’m the alpha dog.”
“How do you do that?”
“I can’t just give away my secrets. You’ll have to wait for the book.”
“Does it have a title?”
“The Man Who Listens to Terriers. Don’t laugh. Dog training is serious business in my family.” He’s leaning toward me now and, judging by the flickering candles in the table’s centerpiece, he’s releasing dangerous gusts of pheromones. “In fact, my father and I have broken off our relationship over it.”
“Really?