The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight(28)
“You look like a ballerina,” Whitney says, clasping her hands together delightedly, and Hadley smiles, a bit shy amid so many fairy godmothers. But even she has to admit that it’s true.
“We better go,” Violet says, glancing up at the clock, which reads 12:08. “Don’t want Charlotte to have a heart attack on her wedding day.”
The others laugh as they take one last look in the mirror, then the whole group hurries out the door as one, their heels loud on the linoleum floor of the church basement.
But Hadley finds herself frozen in place. It’s only just occurred to her that she won’t have a chance to see her father before the ceremony, and something about this sets her completely off-balance. All of a sudden everything seems to be happening much too fast, and she smoothes her dress and bites her lip and tries unsuccessfully to slow her rushing mind.
He’s getting married, she thinks, marveling at the very idea of it. Married.
All this she’s known for months—that he’s starting a new life today, a life with someone who’s not Mom—but until now it was only ever just words, the vaguest of notions, the kind of future occasion that seems like it might not ever actually happen, that sneaks up on you like the monsters in childhood stories, all fur and teeth and claws, without any real substance.
But now, standing here in the basement of a church with shaking hands and a hammering heart, she’s struck by what this day actually means, by all that she’ll lose and gain with it, by how much has already changed. And something inside of her begins to hurt.
One of the bridesmaids calls from down the hall, where the echoing of footsteps is growing softer. Hadley takes a deep breath, trying to remember what Oliver said on the plane about her being brave. And though at this particular moment she feels quite the opposite, something in the memory makes her stand up a bit taller, and so she holds on to this as she sets off after the group, her eyes wide under her makeup.
Upstairs, she’s led around to the lobby at the front of the church and introduced to Charlotte’s brother, Monty, who will be the one walking her down the aisle. He’s rail thin and ghostly pale, and Hadley guesses he’s at least a few years older than Charlotte, putting him on the other side of forty. He offers her a hand, which is cold and papery, and then, once the introductions have been made, proffers his elbow. Someone hands her a pink and lavender bouquet as they’re maneuvered into line behind the others, and before she can even really register what’s happening the doors are thrown open and the eyes of the congregation are suddenly upon them.
When it’s their turn Monty nudges her forward, and Hadley walks with small steps, a bit unsteady in her heels. The wedding is bigger than she’d imagined; for months she’s been picturing a small country church filled with a few close friends. But this is nothing short of a gala event, and there are hundreds of unfamiliar faces, all turned in her direction.
She adjusts her grip on the stems of the bouquet and lifts her chin. On the groom’s side, she spots a few people she vaguely knows: an old college friend of her father’s; a second cousin who’s been living in Australia; and an elderly uncle who for years sent her birthday gifts on the completely wrong day, and who—if she’s being really honest—she sort of assumed was dead by now.
As they make their way up the aisle, Hadley has to remind herself to breathe. The music is loud in her ears and the dim lighting of the church makes her blink. It’s hard to tell whether she’s warm because there’s no air-conditioning or because of the panicky feeling she’s trying hard to push away, that familiar sensation that comes with too many people in too little space.
When they’re finally near the front of the church, she’s startled to see her dad standing at the altar. It seems faintly ridiculous that he should be up there at all, in this church in London that smells of rain and perfume, a line of women in purple dresses making their way toward him with halting steps. It doesn’t fit somehow, this image of him before her, clean-shaven and bright-eyed, a small purple flower pinned to his lapel. It seems to Hadley that there are a thousand more likely places for him to be at the moment, on this summer afternoon. He should be in their kitchen back home, wearing those ratty pajamas of his, the ones with the holes in the heels where the legs are too long. Or flipping through a stack of bills in his old office, sipping tea from his GOT POETRY? mug, thinking about heading outside to mow the lawn. There are, in fact, any number of things he should be doing right now, but getting married is definitely not one of them.
She glances at the pews as she walks past; little bouquets of flowers, tied off with silk ribbons, are balanced on the end of each one. The candles at the front of the church make everything look slightly magical, and the sophistication of the whole thing, the stylish elegance of it, is in such stark contrast to Dad’s old life that Hadley’s honestly not sure whether to be confused or insulted.
It occurs to her that Charlotte must now be somewhere behind her, waiting in the wings, and the urge to turn around and look nearly overwhelms her. She glances up again, and this time, it’s to find Dad’s eyes fixed on her. Without really even meaning to, she looks away, using all her concentration to keep herself moving forward, though every part of her is itching to bolt in the opposite direction.
At the top of the aisle, as she and Monty part ways, Dad reaches out and takes Hadley’s hand, giving it a little squeeze. The way he looks right now, so tall and handsome in a tux, reminds her of the photos she’s seen from when he married Mom, and she swallows hard and manages a small smile before moving to join the rest of the bridesmaids on the other side of the altar. Her eyes travel to the back of the church, and when the music shifts and swells, the guests rise to their feet, and the bride appears in the doorway on the arm of her father.