Free The Opposite of Maybe: A Novel by Maddie Dawson
Authors: Maddie Dawson
about it, the more I think wearing white or cream is such a cliché. I think I want something red so I can wear my red cowboy boots.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Maybe a nice red blouse with jeans. I’d even be willing to iron a crease in them for the occasion.” She’s surprised to realize she actually means this. It’s the first thing today that has felt authentic.
“You are not wearing a red blouse with jeans to your own wedding, even if you are marrying Jonathan Morrow,” says Greta. “I cannot risk my reputation with my children by standing up next to a bride in jeans, and I’m assuming I’m the matron of honor since I’ve been waiting for my whole life for this.”
“So I’m stuck with you. Is that what you’re saying?” Rosie is still smiling.
“You are. Who is going to stand up with Jonathan? Do you know?”
“Oh, Greta. It’s not that kind of thing at all. This is … us, remember? This is just a quick thing. It probably shouldn’t even be called a wedding, the way you’re thinking of it. We’re simply saying some words to each other.”
Greta sits down on the spare chair, pushes a strand of curly brown hair out of her face, and looks at Rosie in exasperation. “No, you’re not
simply saying some words to each other
. Listen, this is your
wedding
, and even if Jonathan doesn’t take it seriously, the rest of us do and you should, too. This is what he’s always doing to you. He minimizesthings of importance. He makes you wait to get married, and then
he
decides on
his
timetable, and you all of a sudden have to figure everything out like it’s an emergency. It makes me mad for you that you have to do it this way.”
“Nope, it’s not that,” says Rosie. “I
want
my red boots, and okay, no jeans. I want a red short skirt with ruffles—and I want Indian food.” She’s surprised at the vehemence in her own voice.
“Indian food?” Greta sounds a little hysterical. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Look,” says Rosie, “can’t we just get the hell out of here? I can’t look at these stupid white dresses anymore. I hate this.”
“What, you’re mad at
me
?” Greta says. “I never said you had to have a white dress!”
“But you liked them.”
“I did not. I thought the zombie one was hideous. We were laughing. We were just laughing one second ago, Rosie.”
“I just want to get out of here. I can’t talk about this anymore.” Rosie’s pulling on her denim skirt and blue cotton sweater and sticking her feet into her slides. She grabs her purse.
“Fine, then,” Greta says in her calm, competent, resident adult voice, and she carefully places the dresses into one big stack, and Rosie, who has flung back the curtain and is marching through the store, feels Greta walking more slowly behind her. She’s no doubt fingering the fabrics, stopping to look at other dresses on the rack, nodding to the saleswoman, perhaps even apologizing for her friend who’s, you know, so temperamental.
She and the saleswoman might smile knowingly at each other.
Bridezilla
.
Yes, and the older ones marrying lunatics are the very worst
.
They patch it up, though, later. Suzanne and Lynn meet them for lunch—a ladies’ lunch, as Greta puts it,
not
anything even close to a bridal shower, although they order champagne and do some toasts, and then it turns out that they’ve brought little gifts, too. Rosie slides her eyes over to Greta, who is beaming at her: she’d arranged this whole quasi shower for her, and is now acting pretend-scared that Rosie will be mad about
that
. Which of course she isn’t. She’s grateful that people take this wedding seriously—she just doesn’t want them to try to take it over, or to pity her for it not being exactly what they would want.
She realizes that she’s actually happy. In seven days, she’ll be getting married, and then in another week after that, she’ll be leaving for California. She almost has to pinch herself to believe it.
“What?”
“Yeah. Maybe a nice red blouse with jeans. I’d even be willing to iron a crease in them for the occasion.” She’s surprised to realize she actually means this. It’s the first thing today that has felt authentic.
“You are not wearing a red blouse with jeans to your own wedding, even if you are marrying Jonathan Morrow,” says Greta. “I cannot risk my reputation with my children by standing up next to a bride in jeans, and I’m assuming I’m the matron of honor since I’ve been waiting for my whole life for this.”
“So I’m stuck with you. Is that what you’re saying?” Rosie is still smiling.
“You are. Who is going to stand up with Jonathan? Do you know?”
“Oh, Greta. It’s not that kind of thing at all. This is … us, remember? This is just a quick thing. It probably shouldn’t even be called a wedding, the way you’re thinking of it. We’re simply saying some words to each other.”
Greta sits down on the spare chair, pushes a strand of curly brown hair out of her face, and looks at Rosie in exasperation. “No, you’re not
simply saying some words to each other
. Listen, this is your
wedding
, and even if Jonathan doesn’t take it seriously, the rest of us do and you should, too. This is what he’s always doing to you. He minimizesthings of importance. He makes you wait to get married, and then
he
decides on
his
timetable, and you all of a sudden have to figure everything out like it’s an emergency. It makes me mad for you that you have to do it this way.”
“Nope, it’s not that,” says Rosie. “I
want
my red boots, and okay, no jeans. I want a red short skirt with ruffles—and I want Indian food.” She’s surprised at the vehemence in her own voice.
“Indian food?” Greta sounds a little hysterical. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Look,” says Rosie, “can’t we just get the hell out of here? I can’t look at these stupid white dresses anymore. I hate this.”
“What, you’re mad at
me
?” Greta says. “I never said you had to have a white dress!”
“But you liked them.”
“I did not. I thought the zombie one was hideous. We were laughing. We were just laughing one second ago, Rosie.”
“I just want to get out of here. I can’t talk about this anymore.” Rosie’s pulling on her denim skirt and blue cotton sweater and sticking her feet into her slides. She grabs her purse.
“Fine, then,” Greta says in her calm, competent, resident adult voice, and she carefully places the dresses into one big stack, and Rosie, who has flung back the curtain and is marching through the store, feels Greta walking more slowly behind her. She’s no doubt fingering the fabrics, stopping to look at other dresses on the rack, nodding to the saleswoman, perhaps even apologizing for her friend who’s, you know, so temperamental.
She and the saleswoman might smile knowingly at each other.
Bridezilla
.
Yes, and the older ones marrying lunatics are the very worst
.
They patch it up, though, later. Suzanne and Lynn meet them for lunch—a ladies’ lunch, as Greta puts it,
not
anything even close to a bridal shower, although they order champagne and do some toasts, and then it turns out that they’ve brought little gifts, too. Rosie slides her eyes over to Greta, who is beaming at her: she’d arranged this whole quasi shower for her, and is now acting pretend-scared that Rosie will be mad about
that
. Which of course she isn’t. She’s grateful that people take this wedding seriously—she just doesn’t want them to try to take it over, or to pity her for it not being exactly what they would want.
She realizes that she’s actually happy. In seven days, she’ll be getting married, and then in another week after that, she’ll be leaving for California. She almost has to pinch herself to believe it.