Free His Plus One by Winter Gemissant

 
     
    1.
     
    Samantha turned around in the mirror, assessing the outfit she had put together.  As far as weddings went, this one was bound to be just like all the others: full of glitz, full of glam, and full of free drinks.  At least, she certainly hoped so.  As a consultant at a bridal salon -- her manager pronounced it say-lon in some attempt to sound more cultured and exotic than it really was -- she spent 50 hours of her life every week surrounded by white poofy dresses, people asking questions are crinoline and demanding more tulle, and bitchy bridesmaids who were so clearly jealous that they weren’t the star of the show.  Every day, all day, Samantha thought about weddings, and every day, all day, she hated them. 
     
    Still, when the invitation to her boyfriend Tom’s college pal’s wedding arrived, she dutifully agreed to go as his plus one.  If working in the wedding industry had taught her one thing, it was that people were crazy for weddings, and it wasn’t always the good excited over the moon type of crazy.  This was batshit princess foaming at the mouth over the difference between cream and ivory dress colors crazy.  That brand of crazy had happened three times just that Friday. 
     
    Now, standing in front of her mirror early that Saturday morning, Samantha was satisfied that at least if she had to spend her precious one weekend off of the month from the wedding industry at a wedding, she was going to look impeccable.  She had gone to the salon -- hair salon, not the bridal salon, a welcome departure in and of itself -- and had instructed the stylist to make her look, in her words, “memorably sexy”, to which the stylist had definitely adhered.  Her shoulder-length hair was now the perfect ombre, not too obvious so it didn’t look like she was trying to be on point in the style world, but good-looking enough to make it obvious she cared about how she looked, and she cared about being current with her look.  Working in the bridal salon had taught her that as soon as you stopped caring how you looked or whether you were still current with your taste, it was all downhill.  Next thing you know you’d be asking for a wedding dress made of denim overalls.  No, you had to stay focused when it came to your personal style. 
     
    Paired with the new ombre look was a pair of earrings that at a first glance might be simple, but when one looked closer, they were revealed to be miniature lapis lazuli night skies complete with tiny constellations made of the tiniest diamonds, sparkling without being, again, too gauche.  To try too hard with one’s jewelry was to be gauche -- better to wear the best without flaunting it.  The real thing ended up looking much more refined than a knock-off ever could.
     
    Finally, Samantha had decided upon a violet dress and peep-toe heels that highlighted her curves.  The dress had a low back, falling off in a sharp dip of delicate lace, allowing her to show off her shoulder blades while just barely being appropriate for a wedding.  Live a little, look good was her motto --  and backs were much easier to get away with showing off than one’s breasts.  When it came to looking good, Samantha knew the line and just where she could peep-toe that line with practiced perfection. 
     
    “Are you ready to hit the road?” Tom asked, leaning his head into the large bedroom where Samantha assessed herself in the mirror.  “You know Marcus and Lark -- they’re bound to be chomping at the bit half an hour before the wedding is supposed to start!”
     
    Samantha nodded, but the truth of the matter was that she didn’t know Marcus and Lark.  Not that well, anyway.  She’d met Marcus once at a bar when she was out with Tom, and had noticed his tall stature even when he was sitting down -- she had noticed, too, his cute stubble, and the way his mouth turned up at the corners ever so slightly when he regaled them with the story of how he had proposed to his