A Story of Sweat and Love

It was the hottest day of the year...

And it was also my brother's wedding.

I wasn't particularly enthralled when I checked the weather forecast last week for that cursed day.

Preparations for this wedding had been the bane of my existence for the past 7 months. The last thing I wanted to happen was having to worry about the inconvenience of hot weather. That sounds selfish, I know. But I had aimed to turn that selfishness down a notch, just for 'the big day'.

The decision of which dress to wear is a weighty one. One that requires looking at the bigger picture, all the factors considered. What will the weather be like? How light of a dress can I get away with without it appearing white under dim light? I wouldn't want to be accused of being the bitch who wore a white dress at a wedding, oh no.

Then there's the fabric of the dress. It's a stupid summer wedding, so choosing a fabric that doesn't show off the generous sweat marks that tend to form after an hour of any function. At least, that's what my armpits do.

But wearing cotton, notorious for being good with hot temperatures, makes me ike like I'm going to a picnic. It is not a fabric I deem appropriate for a formal wedding, especially as I am the groom's sister.

You're probably wondering by this point why I did not get asked to be a bridesmaid.

Well, I would like to say there's a funny story behind it, but I actually don't know the reason. My interactions with my brother's now wife have been extremely minimal, as they live an hour away. Being an older woman, you would expect her to reach out and get to know me, the sister of the person she wants to spend the rest of her life with. But hey, who am I to judge?

I'm not mad about it. Do I sound mad about it? I'm not mad.

Part of me wonders if the skinny flatness of her and her chosen bridesmaids (sisters and friends alike) could not handle my short, curvy body. Sure, I have rolls. I have chub. And I realise that a silk, sage green dress may not be the most flattering thing for a curvy gal like me to wear. I wouldn't want to ruin the aesthetics of her Pinterest-perfect wedding.

I sound insecure, dont I? Insecure and selfish. It's not my day, it's hers. She can do whatever she wants with it. I'm just bitter and salty.

And those two tastes don't leave my mouth as I am there, at the wedding, the hottest day of the year, with my silky burnt orange dress, draping around my curves with a smooth and thorough delight. It felt good on me, the dress. The same material as the bridesmaids, but a much superior colour. They looked so washed out and plain in their sage green, with no curves to fill it out.

I still felt hot. Like.... physically, too hot. The sun was shining in my eyes as I sat on an uncomfortable chair. I squinted, hand just over my brows, shielding my eyes from the sun as I watched a wasp hover around the bride persistently. Naggingly. A soft smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

Sweat embroidered my skin. What a stupid idea to wear silk. I scoffed at myself for being stubborn enough to match the bridesmaids' material just to prove I could pull it off better, all with the knowledge of there being a heatwave.

Heatwaves in England are no joke. I will not take any arguments from this. It is hot, humid, and obnoxiously heavy. A thorough pain in the ass, to put it bluntly.

"Don't they look lovely?"

It was more of a statement than a question. I turned to my right, gazing at the tears welling up in my mother's eyes, a handkerchief grasped in her petite, gloved little hand as she curled it into her chest.

"Lovely," came my voice in agreement, because it was true. They did look lovely together. Well-suited. Happy. I didn't know whether to feel sickened or endeared.

They got married. Made it legit. At that point, the sweat patches had darkened, and I made sure my hands stayed firmly fixed at my sides or on my lap, because lifting my arms just wasn't an option anymore.

The reception venue had beautiful gardens to pose, exploiting mother nature's intricate embroidery by having the most micromanaged photo session, trying not to get stung by wasps.

I was only in a few photos, which was fine by me. The photographer was an obnoxious prick who, every time he raised the camera to his eye when I was in shot, asked me to do things that were out of the question.

"Put your arm around your mum," he requested, adjusting his lens as his eyes squinted into the camera.

"No," I quickly said, sounding like a spoiled bitch who wanted to make this process even more stressful than it was. Which wasn't actually my intention, believe it or not.

No. It was my armpits. My armpits were my intention. My attention. More specifically, the sweat underneath them, and how obvious they would then look in the photos if I dared to lift my arm.

A few of my family raised an eyebrow and turned their heads towards me, for I was actually one of the more mild, agreeable members of the family who just went along with everything. I know I sound like a total selfish psycho when I am writing all of this. This is what I really am. This is what I hide from everyone. I suggest you feel blessed and honoured for getting my actual thoughts on this matter. No one else will.

My cheeks raised as I smiled tightly, eyes widening a little as I let out a forced laugh.

"Course I will," I shrugged, coming closer to my mother and gingerly, slowly, raising my arm to put around her, my teeth grinding as I tried not to glare at the photographer for putting me in this situation.

With my arm now around my mother, I smiled politely, feeling all the fake personalities I had accumulated for myself in social situations over the years form into an insincere smile for these picture-perfect photos, knowing full well the dark brown wet patch under my left armpit would be captured in these photos.

I knew that day, I wasn't going to make the final cut. When my brother's new wife will meticulously scan through all these photos in depraved detail, she will see the sweaty sister-in-law she always wanted, and rid all of the photos with me in them. I will be erased from the wedding.

The photographer lowered his camera down, and I could swear I saw a little glint in his eyes. His lips twitched into the slightest of smirks. As if he knew. He saw. The bastard.

I remember taking a deep breath, feeling the rage fill my bitter, twisted heart. I smelled the flowers in the air, sickly sweet and overpowering floral scents. The smell of freshly cut grass, likely trimmed today just for this wedding. All these scents probably sent from some celestial being to ground me. Relax me. And yet it all just irritated me. As everything else did.

-

Evening came. The reception. The meal.

Sauntering my way in with my mother on my arm, we had eyed up the seating plan eagerly.

I saw the shock in her eyes. The widening of her brown orbs, the gloved hand coming over her mouth to conceal a gasp of concern or confusion.

I wasn't particularly surprised that I wasn't on the head table. But poor mother was astonished.

"Why are you not with us? With me?" She grasped my hand tightly, and I could feel her nerves through her delicate skin.

A soft grin tugged at my lips, and I willingly embraced it, my eyebrow raised.

Not replying to my mother's state of awe and shock, my eyes had locked with the table I was assigned to.

The 'singles table'.

That's what it was. A table full of singles. I had been demoted as a sister. I wasn't even with any of the family. I knew a few names enough to know that my brother and his wife had carefully and gently placed me into a seat surrounded by single people.

The urge to manically laugh was tugging at my chest, so compelling that it worried me for a moment.

This is what my life would be now. Going to weddings and being grouped with the singles. Why though? Just because I didn't have a partner or a plus-one? It fascinated me how this treatment had already started. The hushed, coaxing matchmaking. The silent and yet painfully obvious sympathetic glances of 'you'll meet someone someday.'

"Fascinating..." I whispered softly, my grin tugging as my hand reached up and stroked the table I was on. I let out an amused grunt and gazed back at my mother, who was still mortified.

"Don't worry, it's all good. I'm sure they had their reasons," I said diplomatically, a tight smile straining my face, feeling venom in my bloodstream, pumping its way into my heart.

"Have a lovely meal, and I will meet you on the dancefloor later," I winked at her, giving her a comforting squeeze as she whimpered in protest, as if she was going to fight for me on this one.

Giving her a hug was enough to tell her it wasn't worth fighting for. The message was clear, sure. But if I thought of it in a shallow way, it was only a meal.

We parted ways. I sashayed to my table, eyeing up the open bar greedily. I'll be taking advantage of that bad boy later.

Sinking into my designated chair at my table, I realise I am one of the last people to sit down at it. I give a nod and give a general meeting to everyone, scanning the table to meet some smiles, a few frowns, but mainly blank stares.

A warm welcome. How sweet.

The person sitting to my left is a guy about my age. He was okay to look at, but the pungent scent of his overused cologne had me stifling a cough. In my sensitivity, my misty eyes imagining a cloak of smoke around the man, the colour moss green. Yes, the scent was so obnoxiously pervasive that I was imagining it to be tangible.

The seat to my right was empty. Perhaps it was a guest who didn't bother showing up. Maybe they had something better to do than attend their friend's wedding. Or perhaps they were mingling with the other guests, somewhere in the crowd of people that weaved in and out of tables, trying to search for their place.

I wasn't particularly interested. Leaning forward, I grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck, my nails looking like talons as I wrapped my fingers around it in a strangle, lifting and tilting the bottle, watching the sparkles and foam fill up my flute.

Lifting the drink up to my lips, I was startled by the applause as the happy couple walked in hand in hand, making their way to the holy seats of the top table, smiling giddily. I gazed around, realising that most people had found their seats after all. Instead of clapping, I slapped my leg through my dress, which imitated the sound of a clap. My other hand was preoccupied by my glass. Priorities, you see.

The couple slid down into their seats on the head table, and the general fizzy atmosphere of empty chatting and high-pitched laughter.

"Is this seat taken?"

A voice comes from behind me, and I give them the dignity of turning vaguely over my shoulder, barely looking over to see who it was.

But in my peripheral gaze, I see a camera.

So I then strain to turn myself around properly, and would you believe my luck? It was the wedding photographer.

The guy that I knew deep in my gut who revelled in seeing my sweaty pits gleam so unprettily in various of the wedding pictures he had snapped of us.

"Unless your name is," I paused my sarcastic quip, turning and squinting to read the name on the placement card.

"Adam Dove," I said, unimpressed, before turning back to him with a cold, civil smile.

"Then yes, it is taken."

The guy nodded, his quiet confidence moving him to grin as he took his camera strap off from around his neck, placing it gently on the table, before sliding into the chair all too smoothly.

I stared at him, unblinking, eyebrow raised.

"Hi, I'm Adam Dove," he said, giving a smile, extending a cocky hand for me to shake. Instead, I drank some bubbly.

"I figured," I mumbled, unimpressed with the events of the evening. A sprinkle of discomfort tickled in my stomach. This guy had something against me. Sweaty pictures at a formal event. He could easily blackmail me. He could-

"So, why were you demoted to this table then?" The guy side, and I could've sworn I saw red cloud my vision just for a fraction of a second. The sheer audacity shook me to my core. Not many people could move me in such a visceral, angry way. I was... almost impressed.

What a pretentious picture prick.

"Shouldn't you be with your family?" He continued, fiddling with the lens of his camera, wiping it casually, all while sounding more sincere than sarcastic and judgmental.

I looked at him, confused. Like he was a foreign entity. I couldn't suss this guy out, and that threw me off a little.

I realised, too, that I had been staring at him dumbly for a few seconds. My quick-witted, sharp, smart-ass comeback usually flowed like the Niagara Falls; freely and unrelenting.

But now I was hesitating? What was happening?

I raised the flute of champagne to my lips once more, coating it in yet another shade of cherry red from my lipstick as I took an extra big gulp.

"Shouldn't you be shoving your camera obnoxiously into people's faces or something?" I said, voice cold and unbothered, yet I knew my comeback didn't have the same strength and bite as my usual deliveries. Clearly, I needed to step up my game.

He let out a soft scoffing sound, and for a moment, I dared to gaze at him. His brown stubble looked well-groomed and yet rugged at the same time. His green eyes were warm and open, as he chuckled with ease at my retort, as if he expected and embraced my aloofness.

"They've allowed me to sit down for a meal," he glanced over his shoulder at the bride and groom, who got served their meals first. "I'm going to take advantage of a break before they demand me to capture every single drop of this wedding."

I raised an eyebrow, tilting my head a fraction. It was a bold tone to use for someone who was talking to the sister of the groom. Unless he had a sixth sense that I didn't actually care about his rude words.

"Besides," he murmured softly, raising his glass to his lips. I noticed he had gotten himself a beer from the bar, already taken advantage of the best amenity here. "I've already taken a picture of the most beautiful woman here."

There were not many people to catch me off guard by a steep and not-so-casual change in conversation, quite like he did. I found myself intrigued but mainly thoroughly confused.

When he saw my blatant quizzical expression, a huff escaped him, a soft smirk tugging at his lips. Gorgeous.

"You," he said, his green eyes holding my dark ones, and my confusion deepened. "If... that wasn't clear."

"It wasn't," I retorted, and blew some extra air out of my mouth. Breathing suddenly became awkward and unnatural as I held his gaze for a moment.

"You're not a very good photographer," I said decisively, taking a final swig at my drink, finishing its contents.

"I compliment you, and this is what I get back?" He raised his hands defensively, his eyebrow arching a little, as if he were intrigued by me.

"Clearly, you don't have a keen eye for details," I said, thinking myself rather clever. "A professional photographer would notice the abundant dark patches under my pits. Hardly attractive."

He smirked softly, relaxing in his seat. The soft lines in his forehead... I felt a yearning to trace them.

"I beg to differ," he murmured, his gaze sparkling under the artificial light. "I mean, I can cut a woman some slack for being a little sweaty."

He took a gulp of his beer, and I watched his Adam's apple bob a little before he settled the glass down softly on the table.

"Besides," he started again, "it's the hottest day of the year. And you're the hottest woman here."

I didn't know whether to feel disgusted or amused. My mouth opened and then closed, no words escaping at the moment.

That was probably the worst pick-up line I had ever heard. But it was so bad, the cringe running through my veins, that it almost... worked? In the hilarity of it all.

Somehow, the cheesy smirk he gave me, as if he knew he had caught me off guard with something so purposefully and infuriatingly charming.

"Another drink?" He suggested, gesturing to my empty glass. I nodded dumbly, lips parting slowly, my eyes squinting at him, baffled. I was sure he stifled a chuckle at my current expression.

He nodded, and I remember him getting up and swaggering over to the bar to get me a drink.

The moment when the day just got a little hotter.