The DJ began the countdown.
“On three!” he said. Aimee gave him a nod, holding the bouquet over her head and glancing back over her shoulder, looking at the gaggle of girls waiting to jump for it.
One
My heart raced. It was stupid. Just a superstition. I didn’t even believe in superstitions.
Two
It didn’t mean anything if I didn’t catch it. It didn’t mean Dale wasn’t going to marry me. And even if I did catch it, that didn’t mean anything either.
Three
The bouquet sailed through the air, pink and white ribbons fluttering madly, and I could have sworn I had never wanted anything quite so badly in my life. The trajectory was skewed to my left, which was good—it was away from Carrie’s long arm, which stretched in front of me, barring my way. So I ducked under it, elbowing Lauren aside and grabbing the hanging ribbons, tugging the bouquet toward me.
I got it!
I had it, for a moment. The ribbons were clenched tightly in my fist and I yanked on them, realizing there was some resistance. It was Lauren. She had hold of the handle underneath. But I wasn’t going to let a ten year old who had at least another decade to wait before marriage win this little tug of war.
“Gimme it!” Lauren snarled.
“No way, kid!” I growled right back, grabbing the handle underneath, above the younger girl’s grip, and I yanked it free. “This is mine!”
I held it up in triumph and the crowd cheered. Lauren pouted, crossing her arms over her chest, but Aimee came over to put an arm around the girl.
“You’ve got a long way to go before you’re really ready to catch a bouquet,” Aimee said with a laugh, nudging her young cousin. The girl gave her a reluctant smile. “Besides, you know what happens next?”
The girl shook her head.
“Matt throws the garter and whoever catches it gets to put it on the girl who caught the bouquet.”
“What’s a garter?”
Aimee leaned down to whisper in her ear.
“Ewww!”
“See, aren’t you glad Sara caught it instead?”
It suddenly occurred to me that I was going to have to sit in the chair the DJ was unfolding in the middle of the dance floor.
Dale didn’t look very happy about me catching the bouquet when I joined them, taking my shoes back from John and slipping them on.
“I caught it.” I held it up, triumphant, although now I felt a little sheepish, seeing that look on Dale’s face. “What? What did I do?”
“No way.” Dale shook his head as the girls dispersed, laughing and talking. The DJ was calling for all the single men to come out onto the dance floor. “There is no way another guy is going to…”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he looked out over the dance floor at the gathering of guys, like he was sizing them up, getting ready to do battle.
He looked down at his waist, reaching around and unhooking the pink cummerbund that had come with the tuxedo. All the guys in the wedding party were wearing them.
“Hold this.”
He handed the pink band of material to his father and John took it, shaking his head.
That was the first time I realized Dale was wearing a belt—his belt—under his cummerbund. It was black and studded and had belonged to his father. Not John, but Dale’s real father. I still couldn’t believe John didn’t know that Dale—and Dale’s sister Chrissy, who lived in Maine with her mother—wasn’t really his. I understood why Dale kept it a secret, but I didn’t like it. If it were me, I would want to know. Sometimes I wondered if Dale might harbor the belief that if John found out, he wouldn’t love his son anymore.
I knew that was impossible. John loved me, and I wasn’t his real daughter. If he ever discovered the truth, I knew he would still love Dale and think of him as he always had—as his son.