I arrived fifteen minutes early because the invitation said to. Rookie mistake. Weddings never start on time, and now I was stuck sweating on a hard wooden pew, pretending to admire the stained glass like it was the Louvre. The church smelled like roses and lemon floor polish - which, I suppose, is one way of masking the fact that a hundred nervous people are about to sit here for the next hour.

The bride’s family occupied the left side like a coordinated battalion. Cream dresses, blush ties - someone clearly dictated a color palette in advance. They were smiling like catalogue models, only tighter, like they’d spent the morning practicing “pleasant face” in the mirror. The groom’s family on the right looked a little more human: ties already loosening, one uncle scratching at his collar, a teenager scrolling TikTok until his mother smacked his hand.

Up front, the groom was doing his best impression of a department-store mannequin. Perfect tuxedo, hair sprayed into submission, eyes locked on the middle distance like he’d been warned not to move until given permission. He looked like he’d practiced smiling in the mirror but forgot to rehearse blinking. The best man beside him was less composed - his forehead was producing enough sweat to irrigate a small farm.

The priest, bless him, cleared his throat like a lawnmower with bad fuel. Every time he adjusted his glasses - which sat crooked, by the way - I half expected them to tumble off his nose mid-ceremony. Two altar candles shivered in the ceiling fan’s draft. A detail nobody else noticed, but I was already taking mental bets on whether they’d hold until the vows.

And then there was the flower girl. Six years old, frilly dress, basket of petals, humming the Frozen soundtrack at full volume until her mother hissed at her. If this was the dry run, I couldn’t wait for the actual walk down the aisle.

Everyone kept glancing toward the back, desperate for a glimpse of white lace and tulle. Each time a door creaked, the room held its breath, then exhaled in disappointment when it was only another usher. It was like watching a stadium crowd do the wave, only quieter and with more Spanx.

This day had been described to me as “perfect” no less than twelve times. Months of planning, money flowing like champagne, meticulous schedules down to the minute. The bride had rehearsed her walk down the aisle until her downstairs neighbors threatened to call the landlord. The groom had reportedly practiced his vows so often that his roommate started reciting them in his sleep. Perfection, they said. Nothing left to chance.

But here’s the thing about “perfect.” It makes people twitchy. The tighter you wind a room full of humans, the funnier it is when something inevitably unravels. And judging by the groom’s jaw clench, the priest’s glasses, and that kid who’d already stuffed three petals up her nose, I’d put money on this “perfect day” collapsing into something memorable - just maybe not in the way the bride had in mind.

Continue reading (Chapter-2) » Cracks in the Façade