Marilynn Griffith - Made Of Honor

“I’m just talking,” she said, moving faster. “It’s nothing, really.”

More like a big something, but I decided to leave it. This day had enough mess going without adding to it. Time for a detour. “I hope the punch is good.”

Rochelle nodded, gathering her skirt to gain a little speed. Good punch could cover a multitude of sins. Even Tracey marrying Ryan. Okay, he’s not so bad. He’s rich, handsome and loves her to pieces. But there’s just something creepy about the guy. I don’t know. Forget I said anything.

While I pondered the groom’s strangeness, Rochelle grabbed my wrist, digging her natural-length nails into my flesh. Without looking at her, I knew it was already too late. And we’d almost made it to punchdom.

Tracey wouldn’t, couldn’t throw that bouquet at me.

But she did.

A few inches ahead, a group of women floated onto the green in front of us, forming a frightening pastel cloud. The bride broke through, holding her weapon of choice—peach hybrid roses from the Leverhill Botanical Gardens.

“Run!” Rochelle screamed with the concern of a fire marshal at a brewing blaze.

Obeying her command was my first mistake. The stop-drop-and-roll technique is always best to achieve my goals: avoid head trauma, keep the contacts in and keep the dress covering my backside.

As previously stated, I deviated from this method.

When nothing tagged the back of my head—seriously, they stopped aiming for my hands two summers ago—I did a dumb thing and turned around. The bouquet slapped against my forehead like a Jackie Chan sound effect. I tripped on my skirt trying to escape—she’d already nailed me, of course, but it was instinct. My dress ballooned around my waist like a giant boat made of Bubble Yum.

Then…the pain burned beneath my eye. What was that? I dropped to one knee, jerking the whole pink mess of me back into place, while peeking through my fingers. Something I mistook for tears trickled into my mouth. Blood.

I wobbled to my feet. “What in the world?” I’d been hit with a lot of flowers, a few small shrubs even, but no one had ever drawn blood. This was past wrong.

Rochelle hovered over me, panting and picking greenery from between my braids. Satisfied with her job on that, she peeled back my fingers and surveyed the scratch under my eye. “The thorns. Tracey forgot to have them removed. It was the only thing on her list…sorry.”

I took my hand off my eye. Rochelle’s tone let me know that she hadn’t been in on this but she had been aware of the possibility. Not for the first time, the Sassy Sistahs made me mad. Tracey approached slowly, waving like she always does after doing something crazy. I felt my anger wash away at the sight of her silly grin. Still, this was a bit much. “Thorns? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Wish I was.” Rochelle dabbed my face with a napkin from her clutch. No doubt there was a first-aid kit, needle and thread, makeup bag and two shades of pantyhose crammed in that tiny thing. How she’d even managed to hold on to it while trying to drag me to safety was beyond me, but I’d long given up on trying to figure out Chelle’s superhuman womanhood. She just has skills like that. I’m lucky to keep my shoes on. Although I did manage to keep my contacts in. A new accomplishment.

Just before Tracey reached us, someone from the groom’s family intercepted and wheeled her away. The beginning of the end. She was no longer my roommate, my best friend. She was someone’s wife. We walked past Tracey, giving us the “be right there” signals.

Rochelle smiled.

I sulked. “Knowing Tracey, she probably thought it was more Christlike to leave the thorns on.” Mock disgust sounded in my voice. I was trying to be mad and couldn’t.

“Hush you,” Rochelle said, using our code phrase for when one started in on another of the three. It was the standard defense, but right now I felt like pushing past it.

Tracey joined us and slipped an arm around—well, almost around—my waist. “Got you, didn’t I? Sorry about your eye though.”

“You’d better be glad I love y’all,” I whispered as people packed in around us. Pain seared my scalp where Rochelle had raked a stem through my hair.

“Maybe if you’d helped with the wedding errands, you could have taken care of those thorns,” Rochelle said, reaching back in her purse for her dabbing cloth.

Ouch. That hurt way more than my eye. The truth always does. I pushed away Rochelle’s hand, preferring to blink my own way back to health. In a minute, there’d be no skin left on the right side of my face. That girl was dangerous with a Kleenex.

Tracey started to say something, but was called away…again. I took a deep breath, watching her walk to the punch table with her mother-in-law. Where was the groom? Why was I the one getting jealous instead of him? Shouldn’t her husband have been the one hunting her down?

Like I said, he’s a little weird. This whole deal was. But there was no use trying to explain that to Rochelle. She wasn’t trying to hear it. So I did what I always do—tried to explain it anyway. “Look, Rochelle, I already regret not helping out with the wedding. But I just wasn’t sure about this. When I dated Ryan—”

She tried the neck thing again. With success this time. “Dated? Is that what you call it? That mess was so boring he just stopped calling and came back to the singles group. So he wasn’t for you. No reason he can’t be the one for Tracey.” In a deft motion, she grabbed a napkin from the table next to us, wadded it quickly and removed several layers of my epidermis. “There’s just one last spot….”

She reached out again, but I shook my head, thinking I should have thrown in some cookies with the Ben and Jerry’s waiting for me at home. The line we’d joined without meaning to inched toward the punch and some gruesome-looking cake with what appeared to be bubble gum toothpaste for filling. I definitely should have helped with the wedding plans. At least the punch looked good. It would have to be.

The line crept on. So did the conversation, though I was reluctant to respond. “Just to be clear. I do not want Ryan. Never did. I don’t want anybody. And I don’t appreciate the insinuation.” My lips barely moved as we spoke through our smiles so no one would hear. Only a ventriloquist could do better.

Rochelle nodded. “Okay, so that was a bit much.”

“Quite a bit. I’m just not feeling Ryan, okay? I know you’ve got a chapter and verse for why I shouldn’t think that, but I’m just being real. Tracey is like a piece of me. How can Ryan be totally wrong for me and totally right for her? I’m having a hard time understanding that.” I glanced toward the punch bowl at Tracey. She looked happy. So why did I doubt she’d stay that way? “I’m surprised Ryan put down his cell phone long enough to get married, actually.”

“Me, too,” Rochelle whispered, in a moment of weakness. “But he married her,” she said, regaining strength. “Now we have to keep them lifted up in prayer.” She squeezed my hand.

I squeezed back, knowing she’d prayed for me just that quick. She was right. I needed to let this go. “I can’t believe you thought I was jealous though.”

I wasn’t, was I?

Rochelle smiled. A knowing smile. “The real problem is that with Tracey gone, you’ll be alone like the rest of us.”

My neck craned forward, as if to catch the truth of her words before they hit the ground. The punch bowl was almost close enough to touch now. I needed a cup. Bad. When my friends nail me, I get thirsty. And this time, Rochelle had me. Since my mother’s death, I’d only lived with Trevor years ago, the boyfriend I almost married, and Tracey. There were always Dad’s sporadic visits when he wasn’t drunk, but not frequent enough to count. Going it alone with God was frightening, but exciting, too.