Before I Do

At 11:07 on the morning of her wedding, Claire Whitmore decided there were three possible outcomes to the day. She would marry Ben. Ben would eventually marry Maggie. Or her mother would murder all three of them before anyone made it to the altar. At the moment, option three appeared most likely.

“Where are your shoes?” Claire looked down at herself. Seven thousand dollars’ worth of ivory lace cascaded from her waist to the floor, effectively concealing everything below her ankles and, Claire felt, making the question unnecessarily invasive.

“On my feet.” Her mother stared at her. Claire smiled. Her mother bent down, grabbed two fistfuls of wedding dress, and lifted. Two bare feet appeared beneath the gown, toenails painted pale pink.

“Claire.”

“I know. They did a beautiful job. I tipped twenty percent.”

“Your shoes.”

“Oh. Those.”

“Where are they?”

Claire considered this. “Define where.”

Her mother dropped the dress.

“You have three hours and fifty-three minutes until your wedding.”

“That is an alarmingly specific amount of time.”

“I have a schedule.”

“Of course you do.”

“I made copies.”

Claire reached for the mimosa sitting beside her. Her mother snatched it away. “Hey!”

“You’ve already had two.”

“I’m getting married.”

“Exactly.”

Claire waited. Her mother waited.

The bridal suite door flew open before her mother could answer, and Maggie stumbled inside carrying a pair of white heels in one hand, a garment bag over one shoulder, two cell phones tucked against her chest, and half a croissant clenched between her teeth. Claire’s mother pointed at her as if God himself had sent Maggie as supporting evidence.

“See? Margaret understands urgency.” Maggie stopped. Slowly, she removed the croissant from her mouth.

“My name isn’t Margaret.”

“It should be.”

“I’ll notify my parents.”

“Did you find the shoes?”

Maggie held them up. Claire clapped. “Margaret!”

“Where were they?” Claire’s mother demanded. Maggie looked at Claire. Claire looked at Maggie. Maggie looked back at Claire’s mother.

“In Ben’s room.”

Claire’s mother blinked. Maggie blinked. Claire stole Maggie’s croissant. Her mother turned toward her so slowly that Claire briefly wondered whether the human neck was designed to rotate that far.

“Why,” her mother asked, “were my daughter’s wedding shoes in the groom’s room?”

Claire chewed.

Maggie answered. “Because she put them there.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

Claire nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like me.”

“You said you’d forget where you put them.”

“Apparently I know myself very well.”

“You specifically said, and I quote, ‘Put these somewhere I’ll never think to look tomorrow.’”

Claire swallowed. “And you chose my fiancé’s bedroom?” Maggie’s mouth fell open. Claire’s mother made a tiny choking noise. Maggie pointed at Claire with the croissant. “Do not make that weird.”

“I didn’t make anything weird.”

“You just made it weird.”

“I asked a perfectly reasonable question.”

“You told me to put them there!”

“And you obeyed. Interesting.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Claire.”

“What?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to sell me into human trafficking.”

Claire frowned. “Please. I’d get at least forty grand for you.”

Her mother closed her eyes. Maggie stared. Claire smiled. “I’m going downstairs,” her mother announced. “When I come back, I expect shoes to be on your feet, champagne to be out of your hand, and whatever this is”—she waved between Claire and Maggie—“to have stopped.”

“Can Grandma keep drinking?”

“No.”

From somewhere in the hallway came the unmistakable voice of Claire’s seventy-eight-year-old grandmother.

“LIKE HELL I CAN’T.”

Claire’s mother froze. Claire covered her mouth. Maggie made a strangled sound. “Mother!” Claire’s mother shouted through the door.

“WHAT?”

“It is eleven in the morning!”

“I’m retired!”

Claire folded forward, laughter exploding out of her so hard her stomach cramped. Maggie collapsed against the vanity beside her, wheezing into both hands. Claire’s mother pointed at them.

“Neither of you is funny.”

That only made it worse. By the time the door slammed behind her mother, Claire was crying, Maggie had somehow ended up sitting on the floor, and the croissant had disappeared beneath the couch.

“Your grandmother is going to get thrown out of your wedding,” Maggie gasped.

Claire wiped underneath her eyes carefully. “My grandmother is going to get thrown out of God eventually.”

Maggie snorted.

“Okay.” Claire inhaled. “Go find Ben.”

The laughter stopped.

Maggie stared at her.

“No.”

Claire blinked. “No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because this is the fourth time today you’ve sent me to find your fiancé.”

“Third.”

“Four.”

“Name them.”

“Seven-thirty this morning, you made me take him coffee.”

“He gets grumpy without caffeine.”

“Eight-fifteen, you sent me to ask whether he remembered his vows.”

“Important.”

“Nine-thirty, cuff links.”

“He couldn’t find them.”

“They were in his pocket.”

“Which is technically a place.”

“And ten-forty, you told me to go downstairs and ask whether he thought the peonies looked ‘emotionally available.’”

Claire pressed her lips together. Maggie stared at her. Claire’s shoulders started shaking.

“Don’t.”

“I forgot about the peonies.”

“CLAIRE.”

“They looked closed off!”

Maggie grabbed a decorative pillow from the couch and hurled it at her. Claire ducked, laughing.

“Stop sending me to Ben!”

“Why?”

“Because he’s your fiancé!”

“For another three hours and forty-seven minutes.”

Maggie’s expression changed. Claire realized her mistake immediately.

“What does that mean?”

“Until he’s my husband.”

“No.” Maggie pointed at her. “That’s not what your face just said.”

“What did my face say?”

“Something disturbing.”

“My face is beautiful.”

“Your face looks like it knows where a body is buried.”

Claire smiled.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Go find Ben.”

“Why?”

“He needs help with his vows.”

“He has vows.”

“He might need to practice.”

“With his bride.”

“That’s a conflict of interest.”

Maggie stared at her for a long moment. Then she picked up the pillow. Claire held up both hands.

“Violence on a wedding day is incredibly tacky.”

“I am going to suffocate you with something monogrammed.”

“That’s how I always imagined I’d go.”

“Claire.”

“Maggie.”

“I am not practicing Ben’s vows with him.”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE THEY’RE ABOUT YOU.”

“Exactly. I’m biased.”

Maggie’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Claire watched her friend’s brain attempt to locate an exit from the conversation.

“Go,” Claire said.

“You are insane.”

“Probably.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Currently?”

Maggie headed for the door.

“Debatable.”

“Mags?”

Her hand stopped on the knob. Claire nearly said it.

Tell him.

Two words. That was all it would take.

Tell him you love him. Tell him you’ve loved him since before I met him. Tell him the reason you’ve never stayed in a relationship longer than eighteen months. Tell him why you disappeared into the bathroom the night he proposed to me. Tell him why you refused to be alone with him after our engagement. Tell him why you’ve spent four years making absolutely sure nobody could ever accuse you of wanting what belonged to me.

Instead, Claire smiled.

“Ask him if the peonies have opened up emotionally.”

Maggie flipped her off and walked out. The door closed. Claire’s smile disappeared. Three hours and forty-five minutes.

At twelve-thirty, Claire was alone. The bridal suite looked as though a department store had exploded inside a florist. Makeup covered the vanity. Dresses hung from every available surface. Champagne bottles crowded a silver bucket. Someone’s bra was hanging from a lampshade, and Claire had stopped asking questions about ownership twenty minutes earlier.

Outside the window, white chairs filled the lawn. People were arriving.

Her people.

Ben’s people.

People who had traveled across three states to watch Claire promise forever to a man she loved. And she did love him. That was the miserable part.

If Ben had been cruel, leaving would have been easy. If he’d cheated, she could have thrown his clothes onto the lawn, keyed his car, written something regrettable about his anatomy on social media and moved on with her life.

But Ben was good. He brought Claire coffee in bed. He rubbed her feet when she complained about work. He called her mother on her birthday without being reminded. He knew Claire hated the crust on sandwiches and ate it himself because he considered wasting bread a character flaw.

She could marry him. They could have a house. Children. Christmas mornings. Arguments over thermostats. Vacations. Mortgage payments. Thirty years of inside jokes. She could have a good life with Ben. Claire looked at herself in the mirror.

And whispered, “Good isn’t enough.”

Her throat tightened. She hated herself a little for believing that. She hated Maggie a little too. She hated Ben. She hated love. She especially hated whoever invented weddings.

A knock came at the door. Claire wiped her eyes.

“What?”

Her cousin Amy stuck her head inside.

“Your grandmother is stealing centerpieces.”

Claire stared at her.

“How many?”

“Six.”

Claire sighed. “Let her.”

“Claire.”

“She’s seventy-eight.”

“She put one in her purse.”

“How big is her purse?”

“Claire.”

“She has friends, Amy.”

“She also stole a bottle of champagne.”

“That’s unrelated.”

Amy disappeared. Claire laughed despite herself. Then cried despite herself. Then laughed because she was crying.

“God,” she whispered, looking at her reflection. “This is fucking ridiculous.”

At one-fifteen, Ben found her. He wasn’t supposed to see her before the wedding. Apparently nobody had told Ben. He opened the bridal suite door, took one look at her, and stopped breathing. Claire’s heart broke cleanly in half.

“Wow,” he said.

She smiled.

“That’s it?”

“I had a better sentence.”

“Where’d it go?”

“You’re wearing that.”

“Strong recovery.”

Ben laughed. There it was. That laugh. The one she’d loved for four years. He stepped inside.

“Claire, what are you doing?”

“Currently? Contemplating whether Spanx violate the Geneva Convention.”

“You know what I mean.”

She did.

“You’ve been acting weird all day.”

“I’ve been acting weird since 1994.”

“Weirder.”

“Rude.”

“You’ve sent Maggie to my room five times.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

Claire frowned. “When was five?”

“The peonies.”

“That counts separately?”

“You made her ask me whether flowers were emotionally available.”

“They weren’t.”

Ben laughed despite himself. Then he stopped.

“Are you having second thoughts?”

Claire looked at him.

“No.”

It wasn’t a lie. She’d had second thoughts months ago. Today was about deciding whether she’d listen to them. She stood.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If Maggie called you tonight at three in the morning and said she needed you, would you go?”

Ben blinked.

“What?”

“Simple question.”

“Why would Maggie call me at three in the morning?”

“Ben.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Then why does she need me?”

Claire stared at him. Ben stared back. She started laughing.

“What?”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You can’t even answer the hypothetical without investigating the emergency.”

“Because apparently Maggie is stranded somewhere at three in the morning!”

“I never said stranded!”

“Then why is she calling?”

“I DON’T KNOW, BEN. MAYBE SHE SAW A LARGE MOTH.”

He threw his hands up. “Then absolutely not!”

Claire doubled over laughing.

“You’d leave her with the moth?”

“If she calls me at three in the morning over a moth, yes!”

“What if it’s really big?”

“How big?”

“Why are you negotiating the size of the moth?”

“Because you’re asking whether I’d abandon my fiancée in the middle of the night over an insect!”

Claire was laughing so hard she had to grab her stomach. Ben was trying not to. He failed. For thirty seconds, they stood in the bridal suite on their wedding day arguing about a hypothetical emergency moth until Claire had tears running down her cheeks and Ben had to lean against the wall.

Then the laughter faded.

Claire looked at him.

“If Maggie really needed you?”

Ben’s smile disappeared. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Twenty-seven minutes before the wedding, Maggie was fastening Claire’s veil. Neither woman spoke. The laughter had gone somewhere else. Claire watched Maggie in the mirror.

Beautiful Maggie. Terrified Maggie.

Maggie, who had spent four years standing three careful feet away from Ben whenever Claire was in the room.

“You’re going to be so happy,” Maggie whispered.

Claire looked at her reflection.

“Are you?”

Maggie’s hands stopped.

“What?”

“Are you happy?”

“Of course.”

“Liar.”

Maggie stepped backward. Claire turned.

“I’ve known for three years.”

Maggie’s face went white.

“Claire—”

“I know.”

“Nothing happened.”

“I know.”

“I swear to you, Claire, I never—”

“I know.”

“I would never do that to you.”

“I know.”

“Then what the hell are you saying?”

Claire’s eyes filled.

“You never touched him.”

Maggie stared.

“You never flirted with him. Never called him unless you had to. Never stayed alone with him. Never sat beside him if another chair was available. You spent four years making sure I never had a reason to suspect you.”

Maggie’s lip trembled. Claire smiled sadly.

“That’s how I knew.”

Maggie sat down.

“Oh, fuck you.”

Claire laughed through her tears.

“Fair.”

“You’re getting married in twenty-seven minutes.”

“Twenty-six.”

“STOP KNOWING THE TIME.”

“I have a laminated schedule.”

“Your mother has a laminated schedule!”

“I stole one.”

Maggie covered her face.

Claire sat beside her.

“You love him.”

“No.”

“Maggie.”

“No.”

“Maggie.”

“Shut up.”

“You love him.”

Maggie looked at her. And there it was.

Finally.

“Yes.”

Claire’s heart broke. It also relaxed. What a terrible combination.

“Thank God.”

Maggie stared at her.

“What?”

“I have spent FOUR YEARS waiting for one of you idiots to say that.”

“You’re marrying him!”

“Maybe!”

“CLAIRE!”

“I haven’t decided!”

Maggie stood so quickly the chair fell backward.

“YOU HAVEN’T DECIDED WHETHER YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED?”

“I’ve been busy!”

“WITH WHAT?”

“TRYING TO GET YOU TWO EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED MORONS TO HAVE A CONVERSATION!”

Maggie stared at her. Claire stared back. Then Maggie made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

“I hate you.”

“Get in line.”

“I am not marrying Ben.”

“Excellent, because there’s no paperwork for that today.”

“CLAIRE!”

Claire laughed. Maggie laughed. Then they both cried. Then Maggie hugged her. And Claire finally let herself fall apart.

“I love him,” Claire whispered into her shoulder.

“I know.”

“I really love him.”

“I know.”

“This hurts.”

“I know.”

Maggie held her tighter. Claire cried until her mascara threatened structural failure. Then someone pounded on the door.

“TWENTY MINUTES!”

Claire pulled away.

“Jesus Christ, Carol!”

Her mother’s voice came through the door.

“DON’T TAKE THE LORD’S NAME IN VAIN ON YOUR WEDDING DAY.”

Grandma shouted from somewhere farther down the hall.

“OH, LET HER. HE’S HEARD WORSE.”

Maggie snorted. Claire started laughing. And just like that, they were both gone again—clutching each other, stomachs aching, tears running down their faces.

There was no wedding. There was, however, a reception.

Claire’s mother required seventeen minutes, one glass of champagne, and a private conversation containing several words Claire had never previously heard her mother say. Then she emerged from the bridal suite, squared her shoulders, and announced:

“We paid thirty-eight thousand dollars for this.”

Claire nodded.

“The cake is nonrefundable.”

“Correct.”

“The DJ is here.”

“Yes.”

“The bar is open.”

“Very.”

Her mother inhaled.

“Then somebody better dance.”

Claire kissed her.

“You’re my hero.”

“I’m still furious with you.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

Grandma appeared behind them carrying another centerpiece. Claire’s mother pointed.

“PUT THAT BACK.”

Grandma clutched it to her chest.

“I EARNED THIS.”

“You did not!”

“I BOUGHT HER A TOASTER.”

“THIRTY YEARS AGO!”

“IT WAS A GOOD TOASTER.”

Claire bent forward laughing. Her stomach hurt. Her face hurt. Her heart hurt. Everything hurt. And somehow, she was happy.

Hours later, barefoot and slightly drunk, Claire sat at a table eating her own wedding cake directly from the serving knife.

Across the ballroom, Ben and Maggie stood talking.

Not kissing. Not touching. Talking.

Finally.

Maggie glanced across the room. Their eyes met. Maggie walked toward her.

“Are you okay?”

Claire considered lying.

“No.”

Maggie’s face crumpled. Claire grabbed her hand.

“But I will be.”

Maggie nodded. Then she looked over her shoulder. Ben was waiting. Claire groaned.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“What?”

“Go.”

“Claire—”

“Margaret.”

“My name is not Margaret.”

“If you make me cancel another wedding because you’re emotionally constipated, I’m changing it legally.”

Maggie laughed through her tears. Claire pointed toward Ben with the cake knife.

“Go.”

Maggie went. Claire watched her best friend cross the ballroom toward the man Claire had almost married.

It hurt. God, it hurt. But underneath the hurt was something Claire hadn’t expected.

Relief.

Her grandmother dropped into the chair beside her, centerpiece still tucked under one arm. “You gonna eat all that cake?” Claire looked down.

“Probably.”

Grandma nodded toward Ben and Maggie.

“You knew?”

Claire looked at her.

“You knew?”

“Honey, I’m old, not blind.”

Claire’s mouth fell open. Grandma took the cake knife from her and helped herself to a bite.

“How long?”

“First Thanksgiving.”

“That was three years ago!”

“Four.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Grandma shrugged. “Not my circus.”

Claire stared at the stolen centerpiece under her arm.

“You literally stole part of the circus.”

“I bought you a toaster.”

Claire laughed. She laughed until her stomach hurt again, until she couldn’t breathe, until tears slipped down her cheeks and she couldn’t tell which emotion they belonged to anymore.

Across the ballroom, Maggie was laughing too. Ben said something Claire couldn’t hear. Maggie shoved him. He laughed. Claire smiled. Grandma handed back the cake knife.

“You did good, kid.”

Claire leaned her head against her grandmother’s shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The DJ started another song. Someone screamed for Claire to come dance. Her mother was arguing with a bartender. Grandma was stealing cake. Her almost-husband was talking to her best friend. And Claire was sitting barefoot in a wedding dress at the reception for a wedding that hadn’t happened.

It was a disaster. It was heartbreaking. It was ridiculous. It was probably going to take years of therapy to unpack.

Claire smiled.

Then she stood, kicked the abandoned heels beneath the table, grabbed her grandmother’s hand, and headed toward the dance floor.

For the first time all day, Claire wasn’t watching the clock.