Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Bride so Blue

sunday morning. with the bride-to-be.

All the windows in the house are open, and the breeze that winds through the bedroom is cool and light, but the air crackles with lightning, and something sour is sitting on your tongue. Mama's got her hands in your hair and pins in her mouth, Patty's fixing up the hem of your dress, and Audrey's digging through the jewelry box, searching for Grandmama's necklace and earrings.

Addison's well-adept at the technical aspects of courting, but that's no surprise. He visits, and he talks, and he never keeps you any longer than he should. He's polite and reserved and Mama likes him. Mama likes him quite a deal. Her eyes had lit up so bright when you'd started entertaining Addison, and whenever he'd come calling she'd always give him such approving smiles. She'd never done nothing like that around Jude. She'd always been frowns, always narrowed her eyes and scrutinized him from the top of his dark hat to the tips of his mean spurs.

She'd disapproved of Jude something awful, and Papa had always managed a concerned little frown, but neither of them have anything bad to say about Addison. They shouldn't have anything to say about him; he hasn't earned himself a reputation of any kind.

Addison Bishop bores you to tears, and that's supposed to be good. That's great. That's a fantastic thing and he's so happy to oblige and that should please you.

Addison Bishop hasn't a single qualm about you—not one little complaint. He's all nervous, shy smiles and red cheeks and flowers. Addison Bishop's so sweet on you it might just give him a toothache.

Addison Bishop's gonna marry you.

You see yourself in the vanity mirror, and you're like a little chrysalis—all quiet and still and just a step before beautiful—but there's a frown sitting on your lips, and next to your face hangs a picture of Addison, who's all somber and gloomy-eyed and ordinary. Mama's just behind you with pins in her mouth and her eyes all narrowed and serious. Addison's flowers are sitting in a vase just to the right of the vanity, and they're real pretty, but their little petals are turning brown around the edges, and the sight means a great deal of nothing. Flowers die all the time.

Jude gave you a flower once—a pretty purple aster what he'd plucked just for you. It was no bouquet, no fancy gift with silver trimmings or a big red bow, but it was meant for nobody but you, and Jude's hard, calloused hands had held it and delivered it and tucked it right behind your ear. That little flower had made you so pretty—had made you the prettiest girl in the whole world—but then it had wilted, too.

The breeze what winds in through the window brushes your cheek, and Mama accidentally digs one of the pins into your scalp, so you wince.

"Oh—pardon me, dearheart," she says around the pins in her mouth. She looks up from her work, and her eyes meet yours in the mirror, but her determined frown sours a little at the edges and she pauses her pinning and gently grabs your chin. "Oh, don't worry, now. Everything's going to be just fine, dear."

You look your mama in the eye, and the weight pressing down on your chest digs like a hairpin into the soft bits of your heart, but you don't wince. The taste in your mouth is so sour it stings, and Jude's photo is burning a hole in the pocket of your wedding dress.

Why can't you let things die?

He doesn't love you. Maybe he'd never loved you. Maybe that pretty purple aster was just another hollow promise, and Jude had never meant anything by it.

"Okay," you say, but it sounds like a whisper, and the sour taste in your mouth twists itself up and then starts slithering like a snake down the back of your throat.