Once and for All(9)

Finally, at 6:23, the processional music began. I pivoted in my seat, looking over my shoulder as the ring bearer and flower girl plodded adorably down the aisle, tossing rose petals in front of them. As William ushered them into their spots, the bridal party followed, two by two, like animals to the ark. When Bee passed me, she smiled at me again, and I got the distinct feeling she was used to apologizing for her brother. In contrast, when he and Eve came along next, the crowd oohing at her yellow dress and him so handsome in his tux, he didn’t even see me.

A wedding is a series of special moments, strung together like beads on a chain. Sure, by themselves, they are lovely, but put them all together and you get art. If we did our job right, the fact that the initial moments were off wouldn’t even be remembered after the first dance, toasts, and cake cutting were done. But really, in a perfect wedding—or world—you wanted the best possible beginning. Start on a high note and, no matter what song follows, chances are just better that it will be music to your ears.




At 9:47, despite the strict ten p.m. sharp ending on the schedule, the dance floor remained crowded. Still, I took no comfort in the fact I’d been right talking to Jilly earlier. The day had been unexpectedly hot for the end of April, and the combination of stress, sunshine, and multiple hours on my feet had taken a toll. I didn’t want to go to Bendo, much less make the effort required to be “out there,” with two boys I didn’t even know. And I definitely didn’t want to dance. Which was why, when Ambrose Little emerged from the back of a rather sloppy-looking Electric Slide line, spotted me, and beckoned, I only shook my head.

This was a no-brainer, but not because of anything to do with him. The Golden Rule of working a Natalie Barrett Wedding: remember your place. It wasn’t unusual for clients, over the course of many months of planning, to develop a certain dependency on us. Huge life events that were fraught with emotion often led to displaced feelings. However, “Nobody wants to look at their pictures later and see their wedding planner acting like a guest,” my mom always reminded extra employees we took on from time to time for bigger events. “If we don’t stay out of frame, we haven’t done our job right.”

So I wasn’t surprised to be asked to dance. It happened, especially at open bar events. I was, however, not expecting him to respond to my no by shaking his own head, then walking right over and sticking his hand out to take mine.

“Dancing is healing,” he said, opening his palm wide to me as the music faded out and another song began. “Let’s heal.”

“No, thank you,” I said.

He wiggled his fingers wildly, as if imitating a sea anemone might suddenly sway my opinion.

“Thanks, but no,” I told him, switching up my three allowed words in this situation.

“Ambrose!” a girl in a short pink dress, her now bare feet crisscrossed with the evidence of previously worn sandals, hollered from the floor. “Get over here! We need you for the conga line!”

“Hear that?” he said to me. “Conga! You gotta get in on this.” When again I shook my head, he sighed loudly, then bent over with his hands on his knees, as if my response was now so tragic it had knocked the wind out of him. After a second, he lifted his head, then one hand, busting out the sea anemone move again. “Conga. Healing. Let’s go.”

“No, thanks,” I told him.

People were starting to form the line now, stumbling as they grabbed on to each other, laughing and flushed. If there was a benchmark of the Beginning of the End of a reception, this was it. Ambrose looked over, grinned, then turned back to me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t have to squeeze tight.”

“You won’t have to squeeze at all,” I said. “Because the answer is still no.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working this event?”

“I am.”

“So you should dance, then.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Why?”

The last thing I felt like doing was getting into the parameters of my job with a clumsy, wavering conga line approaching. “I’m not a guest, I’m an employee. We don’t dance. We work.”

He considered this briefly. “Okay, then I’m asking you to be my date. You’re off duty.”

“That’s not how it works either,” I told him.

“Man! You are tough!” He shook his head, that curl I couldn’t seem to not focus on bobbing. The conga line was now winding around a nearby chair, a red-faced man with a cigar clamped in his mouth leading it. “So what you’re saying is that you are never going to dance with me right now, no matter how I plead or beg you, even if conga is involved.”

“Correct,” I said.

“Really?” He made a face. “Shoot. I hate not having what I want.”

This was such a weird thing for him to say—arrogant, honest—that I found myself, for the first time, without a set response at hand. But as the conga line came up behind him, the girl in pink letting out a whoop as she reached for his belt buckle, I almost wished for a final beat to address this thought, one I still had myself, more often than I could admit.

I hate not having what I want.

“Don’t we all,” I said quietly, as the line blurred past me, weaving through the tables. And just like that, I reached the point where the whole thing was too much color and life and laughter, and all I could do was turn and walk away.