Gems

Cass checked her phone. Isabella’s never late.

In their twenty-year friendship, Isabella had been late maybe one time: after a fender bender she “did not cause”—a point she continued to insist upon. Between her friend’s reckless driving and sheer force of will, something was wrong if she missed an appointment. And while this was a simple mani-pedi, in two days all attention was going to be on one of Isabella’s fingers.

The one on her left hand, directly connected to her heart.

“It’ll just be another minute or so,” Cass said. The receptionist smiled, her features fixed. She performed calculations over the day’s bookings, trying to figure out who they could bump if the bride couldn’t get it together.

Cass started yet another text. There was a lot to contend with before a wedding: guests in from out of town, final negotiations with the venue, unexpected hiccups with vendors. Surely, amid everything, her best friend hadn’t forgotten about the necessary ritual of girl time with her maid of honor. How long would she wait until she had to cancel? She’d already surrendered her credit card to cover the late-arrival fee.

“Don’t judge me,” Isabella demanded as she careened through the salon’s double doors, bucket bag swinging from her elbow. Her voice was strident against the mellow guitar of Miley Cyrus’ Malibu. The friends embraced.

“You’re allowed some diva behavior,” Cass teased. “They’re holding our seats in the back.” She led the bride-to-be across the emerald tiled floor to a pair of plush pink chairs.

“Get ready for more of it,” Isabella warned. “I thought we’d booked mani-pedis? This lady needs a massage chair.” She rolled her shoulders to dislodge the impending weight of lifetime commitment. It was harder to buck than she’d thought.

“We’d have massage chairs if you were on time.” Cass searched her friend’s face, from the smudge of brow gel on her eyelid to the gray fly-aways at her temples. Probably not the time to push the issue.

“Then we’d best not waste any more of it,” Isabella said crisply. She dropped her bag in the chair and marched to select a color.

An array of bottles in every conceivable shade covered the walls. As Cass predicted, Isabella gravitated to the reds.

“Warm or cool?” Isabella asked. She held two bottles for her maid of honor’s inspection.

“Cool is your signature,” Cass said. “I’d go with the chianti.”

Isabella huffed. “This is my wedding. Shouldn’t I do something different?” She rolled the brick red between her palms.

“You’re the bride,” Cass said with a shrug. She picked a lavender-toned gray.

“Boring,” Isabella grimaced.

“Reliable,” Cass countered. The nail techs waited at the table.

The pair sat in silence as their nails were cleansed, shaped, massaged, and buffed. Isabella’s nail tech shook the brick red and swiped a coat on Isabella’s pinky nail.

Cass felt her friends’ hackles rise from the opposite table, but Isabella remained silent. The tech proceeded to the next finger, adjusting her grip around the princess-cut diamond.

“It’s not right—” Isabella said, shaking her hand free from the technician’s grip. She waved it at Cass. “Tell me this doesn’t look right.”

To Cass, it looked fine. Sure, it wasn’t Isabella’s usual shade of red, but it flattered her skin tone.

This wasn’t about the polish; it was something else entirely.

“I think it isn’t what you expected, but that doesn’t make it wrong,” Cass said.

“You picked this, it’s your fault.” Isabella swiped at a waiting cotton round, eradicating all trace of polish from her nail.

“Ma’am, please,” the nail tech begged. “Let us do our jobs, or we can cancel the appointment.”

Cass’s nail tech froze, absorbed in the drama unfolding.

“Let me handle it,” Cass soothed. To Isabella, she said, “I approved of the color but I won’t take responsibility for you committing to it. Commitment is hard. So, you have a choice— do you want to stick with your usual polish, or are you going to try something new?”

Isabella’s brown eyes held Cass’s blue ones. Cass pictured Isabella’s face, shrouded in a veil, approaching Cass’s brother at the end of the aisle.

“I’d like my first choice, please,” Isabella mumbled.

“Good. Stick to the plan,” Cass said. “If you would please remove the old polish color, I’ll get a new one,” she said to the nail tech. Minutes later, she returned with the chianti.

The receptionist approached as their first coat of polish was drying.

“Ladies, the massage chairs are available,” she announced.

Isabella beamed as Cass and their retinue scurried around her, gathering their purses and the equipment necessary to finish the manicure. Cass settled into her massage chair with relief, plopping her feet gratefully into a bubbling bowl of lavender-scented water. To her left, Isabella wouldn’t settle.

First, the water was too hot. The techs adulterated the foot spa with room-temperature water. Then, the pedicure color was off. Isabella’s tech was a fast learner; she had three alternate colors handy. Just as Cass’s pedicure was receiving topcoat, Isabella stood up from her chair.

“The pressure is too much!” she shouted, and stomped out of the appointment, trailing water in her wake.

“The massage chair controls are on the console,” the tech muttered once Isabella was out of earshot. She started to pack up her station.

“Brides are a handful,” Cass’s technician replied in agreement.

“Please, if you’ll wait a moment— I’ll bring her back,” Cass begged. Her tech shrugged, already thinking of the extravagant tip that awaited her at the end of this hellish appointment. She slipped a pair of flimsy foam sandals on Cass’s feet before she waddled off in pursuit of the bride.

Isabella leaned against the salon window, ponytail creased against the glass and head tipped to the sky. Cass retrieved a bottle of rosé from the minifridge to the left of the register. Thank god she’d booked their appointments at one of those places. She twisted the screw-cap and took a swig before joining her friend on the curb. Cass offered her the bottle.

“I’ve really been looking forward to this,” Isabella said.

“The wine? I’ll bet.”

“And this time with you. And the wedding, of course.” Isabella toyed with the security ring around the neck of the bottle. “I feel like I’m ruining everything.”

“Don’t worry, I have enough cash for a tip if you ever let the poor women get some polish on your nails.”

Isabella glared at her friend between sips.

“Fine, all joking aside.” Cass accepted the bottle from her friend. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Isabella’s eyes sought the sky in contemplation. “There’s so much to manage, and everybody has an opinion— not all of them useful. My mother thinks the flowers are tacky. My sister-in-law to be insists on a boring nail polish color.”

Cass raised the bottle in a toast. Isabella continued.

“But when I ask Craig for his opinion, or for help with anything, he always has some excuse or says ‘you’re the bride.’ If this is what the rest of my life is going to look like, I want no part of it.”

The pair passed the bottle between them wordlessly.

“If you’re looking for my two cents,” Cass said. “You need to honor your feelings. Don’t let the details of the spectacle or whatever anyone else thinks cloud what’s in your heart. That goes for manicures, but also for your life partner. Take care of you first, and when you can’t, I’ll be here to take care of you.”

If Cass didn’t know any better, she’d think Isabella was fighting tears. With a few bats of her eyelashes, her tough-as-nails friend was back.

“Let’s get inside before this polish smudges,” she said.

"Or they finally make good on their threats and cancel our appointment," Cass replied.

Isabella pushed through the double doors once more, settling in the massage chair like a queen on her throne.

“Have you given any more thought to your manicure today?” the nail technician asked.

Isabella grinned at her maid of honor.

“Definitely gems.”

A genuine smile bloomed on the tech’s face. The bill would be something to look forward to, indeed.