Slightly Engaged. Wendy Markham

we’re about five miles away from the exit,” I tell Jack.

      “That means at least another hour. Maybe we’ll miss the ceremony,” he adds hopefully.

      But we don’t. We eventually find ourselves driving along a strip mall–dotted highway with fifteen minutes to spare. Unless we’re lost. Which, come to think of it, we just might be. I think I might have missed a turn a mile or so back, when I was trying to dislodge my numb feet from the cramped space between my purse and the glove compartment.

      Jack’s getting crankier by the second, I have to pee, and we’re both scanning the sides of the road as if any second now we might see a picturesque white steeple poking up amidst the concrete-block-and-plate-glass suburban landscape.

      “What’s the name of the church again, Tracey?” he asks, apparently thinking we might have somehow overlooked a place of worship nestled in the shadow of Chuck E. Cheese.

      Without checking the invitation again, I quip, to break the tension, “Our Lady of Everlasting Misery.”

      Jack laughs. “Really? I thought it was Our Lady of Eternal Damnation.”

      I giggle. “Or Our Lady of Imminent Sorrow.” Then, the nice Catholic girl in me adds, “We probably shouldn’t be making jokes like that.”

      “Sure we should. If Mike’s asinine enough to get married, we can make jokes about it.”

      Okay, here I go again.

      But the thing is…

      Jack didn’t say, If Mike’s asinine enough to get married to Dianne.

      He said, If Mike’s asinine enough to get married.

      Period.

      Which makes me wonder if he thinks only the Asinine exchange vows.

      It’s not as if he’s ever said anything to the contrary.

      “What’s wrong?” he asks, looking over at me.

      “I have to pee.”

      “Are you sure?”

      I squirm and struggle to cross my legs beneath the skirt of the slinky red cocktail dress he earlier admired but callously didn’t remember to relate to the slinky red cocktail dress I was wearing the magical night we met at the office Christmas party, lo, twenty months ago.

      “Am I sure I have to pee?” I echo, irritated. “Of course I’m sure.”

      “I mean, is that all that’s wrong?”

      No. I have to pee and there’s no room in this car for leg-crossing and I’m doomed to bitter spinsterdom, thanks to him.

      My mother and sister were right. I should never have moved in with Jack so quickly.

      Mental note: Next time you are cordially invited to live with someone, request ring and wedding date prior to signing of lease.

      Dianne might be a bitch, but she’s a brilliantly strategic bitch. Here I am wedged into a citrus-scented Kia, sans ring or any hope of one, while she’s lounging in a stretch limo in a tiara with a glass of champagne in one hand and a prayer book in the other, serenely contemplating happily-ever-after with the man she loves.

      Yes. Or, more likely, she has her ever-present cell phone wedged under her illusion-layered headpiece as she curses out some hapless florist who dared to put one too many sprigs of baby’s breath into the bridal bouquet.

      Regardless, what matters—at least to me, and, undoubtedly, to her—is that she’s the one who’s getting married today.

      “Hey, is that it?” Jack asks suddenly, pointing out the window at, you guessed it, a steeple looming above not Chuck E. Cheese, but T.J. Maxx.

      That’s it, all right. Our Lady of Everlasting Misery is decked out with floral wreaths on the open doors, long black limousines parked out front and elegantly dressed Manhattanites milling alongside the white satin runner stretching down the front steps.

      Ah, weddings. Gotta love them.

      Grow old along with me…the best is yet to be…

      How romantic is it to stand up in front of everyone you ever knew and vow to be with one person all the days of your life?

      I experience a glorious flutter of anticipation until I remember that I’m not the bride here. That I may never be the bride anywhere. Not if I stick with Jack.

      Given that the alternative to sticking with Jack is breaking up with Jack, and that I happen to be head over heels in love with Jack, my flutter of excitement swiftly transforms into something that calls for Maalox.

      “This is going to suck,” Jack mutters as we pull into the crowded, sun-steamed parking lot beside the church.

      I’m not sure whether he’s referring to the challenge of finding an empty space or the big event itself, but in either case, I couldn’t agree with him more.

      Chapter 2

      “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the new Mr. and Mrs. Michael Middleford!”

      We all—me, Jack, my three co-workers and their spouses—stand and clap as the band launches into a rousing rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon.” Our table is in the far reaches of the room, a zone that’s obviously been designated for Work Friends and Aging Distant Relatives. There’s a row of walkers and canes and even a wheelchair lined up beside the adjacent table, where nobody is standing or clapping, presumably because the occupants can neither see nor hear.

      Mike and Dianne swoop into the reception hall with their clasped hands held high, resplendent in black tux and white gown. Mike looks dashing, and Dianne…

      “She looks like a cockroach,” Yvonne observes over the rim of her martini glass.

      “A cockroach? Yvonne, that’s a terrible thing to say about a bride.” Brenda’s Joisey accent seems stronger than ever here among the natives.

      “Not if it’s true,” Latisha proclaims.

      “Oh, it’s true.” Yvonne gives her Pepto-Bismol-tinted bouffant a little pat. “She might be all decked out in a tiara and veil but she still has a pinched little face and her eyes are beadier than the bodice of her dress. Cockroach.”

      “I couldn’t agree more, Why-vonne.”

      Naturally, that quip came from Jack, who is on his third scotch and consumed nary a liquor-absorbing mini-quiche or bacon-wrapped scallop during the cocktail hour. He claimed he lost his appetite when he was forced to kiss the bride in the receiving line.

      Yvonne nods, for once choosing not to chastise him for calling her Why-vonne, which he insists is his way of being affectionate. Never mind that Yvonne hates nicknames and generally shows affection for no one. Not even her husband, Thor.

      Which doesn’t mean she doesn’t love us all to death. Affection just isn’t her style. She’s a tough old New York broad who can generally be found steering clear of small children, kittens with yarn balls and potential group-hug situations.

      “Gawd, I hope you people weren’t trashing me at my wedding,” Brenda says with a shake of her big curly black hair. “Did you think I looked like a cockroach, too?”

      “Of course we didn’t, Bren,” I say reassuringly, avoiding Yvonne’s and Latisha’s eyes in case they, too, remember that we’d all cattily wondered how Brenda, in her billowing sequin-studded gown and towering rhinestone and tulle headpiece perched atop a mountain of teased hair, was going to fit through the doorway of the honeymoon suite.

      “Yeah, I’ll bet you didn’t.” Brenda knowingly shakes her head at me, no doubt reminiscing about how we’d snidely speculated whether Yvonne got a senior citizen discount on the caterer for her green card marriage to her much younger Nordic pen pal, Thor. Oh, and how just last May we placed bets on whether Latisha’s enormous