I'll Be Here

this exploding moment…
    I can do nothing but live.
    Live.
    And it’s all right.
    It’s all right.

 
    I have serious issues with families in coordinated clothing.  Just sayin’
    ~Laney Putnam

 
    CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
     
    “Earth to Willow,” Diana snaps her fingers in front of my face. 
    She’s wearing this white puffy thing composed of more taffeta, lace and rosettes than I’ve ever seen.  It’s almost unbearable.  She’s officially surpassed storybook bride to something ominous.  Her eyes are saucers and her normally pristine hair has been mussed by the tug of so much fabric.  At the first bridal salon we went to, she kept trying to fix her hair with a round brush and the small bottle of hairspray she keeps hidden in her purse.  Now she’s given up and has pulled it back into a hairclip borrowed from me. 
                “It’s uh… uh,” I sit up straighter and try to take it all in.  “It’s really nice Diana.”  I make sure to pronounce her name right. 
                She’s got her hands on her hips.  Her eyes sweep left to right, from mirror to mirror to mirror, her face creased in contemplation. 
    A woman in a non-descript black skirted suit is standing off to the right beneath an arched entryway.  She’s got a clipboard in one hand and a fresh mimosa for my soon-to-be-step-mom in the other hand.  The walls of the oversized dressing room are a rustic pink trimmed in pearly ivory.  It’s all very prim. 
    “I think I like the one with the empire waist better,” Diana declares.  She looks at me and I can tell that I’m supposed to acknowledge this.
                Which one?  To me, they morphed into white cupcake frosting about seven dresses ago.  “Uh huh,” I mutter sheepishly. 
                Diana’s eyes narrow.  Great.  She turns to the woman in the black suit and asks a question.  It’s like a foreign language.  Something about crinoline and “hideaway buttons.”  They disappear  behind a slotted door and I am left alone in the dressing room to make sense of the whole thing. 
                This trip has been nothing short of a disaster.  Diana’s sister had to back out at the last-minute because of bronchitis and my father called me and asked me in a panicked voice to be Diana’s wedding gown shopping buddy.  As if I have any interest in wedding gowns or Diana. 
                She picked me up early this morning, and we spent three hours in the car listening to an audio book about risk assessment and not speaking.  At lunch Diana finally spoke.  She asked a few questions—mainly about college. 
    I told her, “I’m considering some art courses.  I’m too late to apply for RISD or another arts school for this next fall but maybe if I work on my portfolio and take some intro classes, I could be a transfer student next year.” 
    Alex actually suggested this the other night on the phone and I didn’t realize that I’d been thinking about it seriously until the words were out there on the table in front of Diana and me dancing around the black olives in my Greek salad.  
    Diana pursed her lips, which is the universal sign of disapproval.  She and my father don’t think a fine arts degree from the Rhode Island School of Design or an art degree from anywhere else for that matter is very impressive.  When she put a forkful of salmon in her mouth without saying anything, I figured that the conversation was effectively over. 
                Now, her head peeking around the door, strands of blonde hair escaping her clip, she asks me, “veil or no veil?”
                This time I need to appear more certain.  “Veil,” I say in an assured voice.
                Diana buys it.  She nods very businesslike and her head disappears again.
                On reprieve, I sink back into the velvety chaise lounge.  My mind floats away, over the past week, over Alex.  It’s a complete cliché but I am on cloud nine.  We’ve been talking twice a day and we’ve sent cute, quirky emails at two in the morning. 
    I’m ninety-nine point four percent sure that I can’t even think about him without smiling wider than a circus clown.  Two nights ago we laughed for an hour discussing British terminology that we wish would become popularized in the States. 
                “Who wouldn’t want to attend a ‘fancy dress party’ over a