I think I feel my phone vibrate. But it’s nothing. A second later, I have to bow my head to hide my tears.
“This guy’s good,” Grandma goes on, indicating Jimmy Stewart with her beer bottle. “But I like that Rick, who owned the café in Casablanca. Now, he was the real deal. You remember when he helps the girl’s husband win the money, so she doesn’t have to sleep with that Frenchie to get it? That’s a real man, for you. What does Rick get for going to all the trouble? Not a thing. Except peace of mind. I don’t want that Brad Pitt phony baloney. What’d he ever do, except take his shirt off, and adopt a lot of orphans? Rick never takes his shirt off. He doesn’t need to! We don’t need to see him naked to know he’s a real man! That’s why I’d take Rick over that Brad Pitt any day. Because he’s such a real man, he doesn’t need to take his shirt off to prove it. Hey. What’re you crying for?”
“Oh, Gran,” I choke. “Everything—everything is so awful!”
“What’re you, pregnant?” Grandma wants to know.
“No, Gran, of course not,” I say.
“Don’t of course not me,” she says. “That’s all any of your sisters ever do. Get knocked up right and left. You’d think they’d never heard there’s a population crisis. So what’s the matter with you, if you’re not pregnant?”
“Ev-everything was going so well,” I sob. “In N-New York, I mean. I think I might really be able to make something out of this wedding dress rehab thing. I can figure out which way is First Avenue and which way is First Street. I finally found a place I can afford that does good highlights… and then I had to go and cry when Luke gave me my Christmas present, because I thought I was g-getting an engagement ring, and he g-got me a… sewing machine!”
Grandma takes a meditative sip of her beer. Then she says evenly, “If your grandfather had ever given me a sewing machine for Christmas, I’d have hit him over the head with it.”
“Oh, Gran!” I can barely see, I’m weeping so hard. “Don’t you see? It’s not the gift. It’s that he doesn’t want to get married—ever! He says he can’t look that far into the future. But don’t you think if you love someone, Gran, even if you can’t see where you’ll be or what you’ll be doing twenty years from now, you’d still know you want that person to be there?”
“Well, of course,” Grandma says. “And if he said he didn’t know, well, you were right to give him the old heave-ho.”
“It’s more complicated than that, Gran. I mean, don’t tell Mom, but Luke and I—we’ve been l-living together.”
Grandma snorts at this information. “Even worse. He’s had a taste, and he’s still not sure he likes you well enough to make a permanent go of it someday? Tell him toodleloo. Who does he think he is, anyway—Brad Pitt?”
“But, Gran, maybe some guys really do need longer than six months to know whether or not a girl they like is the one for them.”
“If he’s a Pitt, maybe,” Grandma says with a snort. “But not if he’s a Rick.”
It takes a few seconds for me to digest this. Then I say, “If I move out, I’m going to have to find a whole new place to live. I’ll probably have to pay even more in rent than I am now. Because I got the girlfriend deal on my current place.”
“Which would you rather have,” Grandma asks, “money? Or your dignity?”
“Both,” I say.
“So? Find a way to have both, then. You’re up to the challenge. You’re the one who was always going around, claiming you could fix anything with a glue gun and a needle and thread. Now go open your grandma another beer. And make it a real one this time. I’m tired of this nonalcoholic crap. It’s just empty calories for nothing.”
I get up and take Grandma’s empty beer bottle from her. Her gaze is glued back to the screen. Jimmy Stewart is running down the street, wishing Mr. Potter a merry Christmas.
“Gran,” I say. “How come you like Sully on Dr. Quinn so much, but you hate Brad Pitt? Isn’t Sully always taking his shirt off, too?”
Grandma looks up at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “That’s television,” she says. “That isn’t movies. That’s completely different.”
You did it! You’re married at last! All that hard work, all those grueling hours… now it’s time to head to the reception and PARTAY!
But wait… do you have your wedding toast ready?
Not just best men and fathers of the bride are standing up to say a few words at wedding receptions anymore. These days, more often than not, the bride herself is paying a hefty portion of the cost of the wedding. So why shouldn’t she take a moment to say a few words?
The best bridal speeches include a little bit of everything—humor, warmth, and yes, even some tears. But here are some absolute musts:
Thank guests who’ve traveled a long way to get to the ceremony/reception, or otherwise have gone out of their way to be with you.
Thank everyone for their gifts and generosity (this does not preclude your having to write thank-you notes later).
Thank any of your friends who have put up with you during the wedding preparations. This includes any members of the bridal party who have gone above and beyond for you (of course, anyone who agrees to stand up with you at your wedding is going above and beyond for you, so you should probably include them all).
Thank your mom and dad. Especially if they’re paying. Even if they’re not, acknowledge any special role they might have had in your courtship/ceremony.
Thank your future husband for putting up with you. A funny story about how you met or fell in love would also work.
Finally, toast your guests, and thank them again for coming to help you celebrate your special day.
Then get wasted. Only not so much that you mess up your dress.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 25
Gossip is the art of saying nothing in a way that leaves practically nothing unsaid.
— Walter Winchell (1897–1972), American news commentator
“A sewing machine?” Tiffany looks shocked. “No. No way.”
“It’s not the sewing machine,” I say to her. “I mean, that was the catalyst for the conversation in which I later realized he doesn’t feel about me the same way I feel about him.”
“But a sewing machine?”
It’s the Monday after Christmas, the first day back at work, and my second day back in New York. I’d spent what was left of Sunday scouring the want ads, trying to find an apartment that—unlike the empty one sitting over the shop, which Madame Henri wanted two thousand bucks a month for—I could afford.
But it was hopeless. The only places I saw for a thousand dollars or less a month were roommate shares. In Jersey City. And urged potential sharers to keep an open mind.
It was especially depressing to be sitting in Luke’s mother’s Fifth Avenue apartment, with the Mirós on the wall and the steps to the Metropolitan Museum of Art right outside the double-paned windows, looking at ad after ad that stated hombres de preferencia.
Hombres? I don’t want to live with a bunch of hombres. I just wanted one hombre…
And he still hasn’t called, much less left me a note. I came back to find the apartment exactly as I’d left it… clean, my sewing machine still in its box, sitting next to the now completely dried-out little Christmas tree. The box I put Luke’s present in is beside it, still wrapped. He hadn’t even bothered to see what I’d gotten him.
I wonder if I can take both gifts back and exchange them for cash. It’s not like I don’t need the money.
“So it’s not even like a present,” Tiffany points out. “Because his dad BROKE your sewing machine. So he got you something he actually OWED you. Not even something, like… new. Something you already have that he broke.”