Always the Bridesmaid

The zipper jams halfway up my back. Of course it does. I exhale slowly, careful not to let the sound turn into a groan. I hold my breath there, like I'm accustomed to — in my chest, under my ribs, behind my teeth — and try again. The navy bridesmaid dress bunches at the waist, stubborn tulle clinging desperately to itself. Even the dress can sense my nerves.

There's a knock on the bedroom door, three fluttering taps against the dark oak. Wendy.

"Almost ready?" comes my little sister's airy voice.

"I'll be right out," I reply. My own voice sounds flat in comparison, dull. "Just a stuck zipper." I imagine what Wendy must look like right now: curled hair and flawless skin, cheeks pink like roses, and a smile brighter than a summer day. The golden child, the bride. The glowing, radiant daughter of the city's most influential family. I scowl at my reflection.

I finally get the zipper up, pulling at the fabric until it lies smooth. The dress fits, technically. It's not ugly, I can admit that much. It's even somewhat pretty, if I ignore the dull, plain girl wearing it. However, I don't look like I'm going to a wedding. Instead, I feel like I'm attending a funeral. I turn away from the mirror and open the door.

Downstairs, champagne flows like rivers. White and pink roses cover every surface of the manor, and soft, romantic sounds of the piano float through the space. The chandelier above me sparkles. The white chairs are arranged in perfect, symmetrical rows, split down the middle by a long, ivory aisle runner. My mother scurries around, checking floral arrangements and fussing over tiny details.

"Vera, come here," she calls absentmindedly, and I stalk over to her. "Would this look better by the door?" She gestures to a vase of white roses seated on a table by the stairs.

"Yes," I say; I've learned to always agree with my mother. She nods and picks up the vase. I suspect she would have moved it regardless of my answer. As she shuffles towards the door, I catch my father's eye near the altar. He smiles politely at me. Then, his eyes light up as Wendy bursts into the room. Her pink dressing gown flutters around her as she skips towards us. The diamond on her finger shines almost as bright as the grin on her face.

"There she is!" he exclaims, taking her into his arms. "What do you think?" He waves a hand at the manor's interior. Wendy's smile widens as she takes in the decorations.

"Oh, it's lovely," she breathes. "I can't believe I'm getting married today!" The corners of my lips turn upward out of obligation, but I wonder how much of a smile it really is.

"The dress looks great on you," she notes, looking me over. I'm not sure if she means it. I hate her either way. Our mother comes over, the wrinkles between her eyebrows deepening.

"Wendy, dear, you need to be getting dressed," she huffs. She ushers my sister back up the stairs, then turns to me.

"Well?" she asked, a stern look on her face.

"What?"

"Shouldn't the maid of honor be helping the bride get ready?" It's more of a demand than a question. Before I can respond, the front doors to the manor swing open with a creak. I pivot, and then I see him.

Him.

Andre strides in with his friends, laughing at something. He has the kind of laugh that makes people turn their heads, lean in, and crave to be a part of whatever he's saying. I find myself wanting to make him laugh like that, to have him notice me. Right now, my smile is a held breath. Look this way, see me here. Please. He meets my gaze, and my pulse quickens. I swallow, willing my blush to fade and my heart to calm as Andre walks over. I'm good at pretending; I have been since the fourth grade, when Andre first lent me a pencil and I kept it in my desk for a whole year just to look at the bite mark on the eraser. I have always loved him quietly, waiting for him to realize what was right in front of him. At least, that was the plan.

I let my eyes rake over him just once, quickly admiring how the black tuxedo fits over his broad shoulders. His dark skin seems to glow under the light of the chandelier, and his brown eyes sparkle with a joy I've never known myself. My father claps him on the back.

"How's my future son-in-law?" Mom squealed. Yes, I've loved him forever. I've admired him so fervently that I'm surprised he never noticed before. But Wendy had gotten there first. That's the thing about Wendy: she doesn't hesitate. And Andre— kind, funny, steady Andre— doesn't hesitate either. He gravitates to warmth, and she is the sun. And I am just the shadow that follows her.

"I'm a little nervous," he admits shyly. "But I've never been happier. The place looks amazing, and I can't thank you enough." My dad nods in acknowledgement, looking at Andre like he's his own son. After tonight, he will be.

I suddenly feel a lump forming in my throat, so I excuse myself to check on Wendy. I stare at her as I walk into the room. Her dress is simple and elegant, ivory silk covering her curvy frame. She runs a hand down her hip, smoothing the fabric until all the wrinkles are gone. A hot seed settles in my stomach, a tiny voice that can't help but scream at how annoyingly perfect my sister is. The seed grows and unfurls and climbs up my throat, clawing and scraping as I think of everything I hate about Wendy: her shiny hair, her singsong voice, even the freckles sprinkled over her cute, button nose. There is a fire within me, daring me to spew out my loathing. I say nothing, though.

I remember the night I first worked up the courage to talk to him. It was a warm summer night, many years after I first laid eyes on him. I had finished my third year of university and was finally allowing myself a moment to relax at a wine bar near my apartment. Andre walked in, wearing that air of confidence like a second skin. He had taken the seat next to me, and our conversation had moved effortlessly, like two people reading the same book in different rooms and finally finding each other in the hallway. It affirmed everything I'd been hoping since elementary school; if soulmates existed, he was mine. I remember thinking, This makes sense. He was not like the other boys I'd met in college, not like the ones who stared at me too long or tried too hard. Andre had earned his charm, earned my attention. He wasn't a peacock — he was a ray of sunshine. He'd laughed at my jokes, and not in a way that felt polite. No, genuine laughter. But when Wendy came over, fluttering in like the summer breeze, I had seen it. That flicker, that knowing glance. Not from him, from her. Like Wendy had just realized something I already knew — that Andre Thomas was a man worth loving. Since then, I've done what I do best: love him fiercely, passionately, silently.

Now, though, it's all becoming too real. I stare at the bride, and I wonder — for the first time — how Andre ever looked at Wendy and thought: Yes, that one. Yes, Wendy is perky, sweet, and absolutely stunning… but she's also ditsy and a bit silly. Part of me always thought Andre would eventually settle with someone intelligent and determined, someone who could have deep conversations with him like we did that summer night. So when Andre proposed to Wendy — after two years of cozy dinners and flower-picking and romantic daydreams — I hadn't been heartbroken. I'd been confused, like the universe had misled him somehow.

"I'm gonna throw up," Wendy says with a laugh as she notices me in the mirror. "I can't believe I'm getting married." I shoot her a small smile, tucking the memories into a small pocket in my mind. The fire in my veins fades a little, and I see my baby sister. The girl I hate, the girl who took my love from me… the girl who is still my sister.

"How do I look?" she asked, green eyes rimmed with worry. Her golden hair sits in soft curls, a thin veil hanging from a diamond band across her head.

"Perfect," I utter, and the words are true. She relaxes and looks back at her own reflection. Behind her in the mirror, my dull, brown hair is pulled up with pearl-encrusted pins. My navy bridesmaid dress clings to my thin body, and my gray eyes look tired. We are so different, and it hurts to know Andre is marrying my polar opposite.

The rest of the afternoon moves in a blur as I help Wendy finish her makeup. Before I know it, I'm standing at the altar beside my sister, hands clasped neatly around a bouquet of white roses. Back straight, soft smile. I watch Andre out of the corner of my eye. He always bites the inside of his cheek when he's anxious. I used to imagine leaning in and whispering, It's okay, I'm here. That line has lived on the tip of my tongue for years — unsaid, unnecessary, waiting.

Now, he's chewing at the same spot, but he's looking at Wendy. My fingers tighten slightly on the bouquet. A petal falls. Andre starts his vows. His voice is low and even. It's not trembling, and that's what surprises me most. Not the vows themselves — which are lovely, if a little predictable — but the stability in his tone. The commitment in it. The way he says Wendy's name like I've always wanted him to say mine. I hear my own heartbeat louder than the words. He really means it. He's not making a mistake; he's not confused. He didn't settle. He chose. And he didn't choose me.

The officiant says something about love being patient. I wonder if patience is the reason I lost. I had waited, waited for Andre to notice. Waited for a sign. Waited for the moment to be right, for him to see me the way I saw him. I never chased, never begged. I thought dignity would be enough.

But Wendy had never needed quiet dignity. She had just asked.

"You may kiss the bride." The applause erupts. People stand. Cameras click. I stay frozen. I force myself to smile — a slight, practiced curve, tight at the corners. Not too wide. Andre kisses Wendy with both hands on her waist, like he's anchoring himself. Like he couldn't imagine being anywhere else. I blink once, slowly.

And it is done.