Hanging by a Thread by Karen Templeton Page B

getting the ring, that she’d find the gown of her dreams before she and I got together, and my involvement would become a nonissue.
    Next thing I know, she shows up at my house armed with twenty bridal magazines, her sister Joanne (who’s been married for four years and has three kids), her mother Sheila (who looks like an older, drier version of her daughters), her best friend Tiffany (there’s one in every bunch) and the worst case of wedding lust I have ever seen. And I’ve seen some pretty bad cases over the years, believe me.
    So. Here we all are, in my teensy living room. It’s like Fran Drescher night in Vegas. The clashing cheap perfumes alone are enough to knock me over, let alone the noise of—let me count—sixteen women all yakking at once. Unfortunately, Heather’s dress hasn’t yet “found” her, as she puts it. So she’s enlisted the help of the entire wedding party. Which, by the time she included her sister, her sisters-in-law-to-be, three cousins she couldn’t get out of including and five of her closest friends, swelled to the monstrous proportions you see here. Except for Tina, who’s supposed to be here but isn’t.
    The crowd is beginning to make hungry noises; grateful for the excuse to escape for a few minutes, I hustle out to the kitchen where Leo and Starr are hiding out, playing checkers.
    â€œQuick. I need mass quantities of food, here.”
    â€œI just bought chips and cookies,” Leo says, not bothering to look up from the board. “In the cupboard.”
    I grab bowls and plates, rip open bags and dump out treats, stealing a Chips Ahoy for myself. Also not looking up, Starr says, “What’re they gonna drink?”
    Good question. I open the fridge to half a bottle of probably flat root beer, a carton of Tropicana, a jug of ice water and a gallon of two-percent milk.
    â€œI could go to the store, pick up a few things,” Leo says.
    â€œTwo twelve-packs of Diet Coke,” I say without missing a beat. “From the refrigerator case so they’re already cold.”
    From the coatrack by the back door, my grandfather grabs his parka, hands Starr her puffy coat. “You know,” he says as he opens the door, letting in a blast of frigid air, “that could be you one day, planning your wedding in our living room.”
    I find this a highly unlikely possibility, but this is not the time for a reality check. So all I say is, “Believe me, if I ever even think of having twelve bridesmaids, you have permission to shoot me.”
    I cart bowls of goodies back out, barely having time to set them on the coffee table and jump out of the way before the pack attacks. I do notice, however, that Heather’s begun to slip into the Fried Bride stage. Her lipstick’s gone, her hair is sagging and she’s got that desperate, panicked look in her eyes. “This one’s not bad,” she says for at least the hundredth time. And for the hundredth time, she is pelted by a barrage of objections.
    â€œOh, no, that’s way too plain, honey—”
    â€œIt’ll squash your tits—”
    â€œYou can’t be serious. Long sleeves in June?”
    â€œAll those bows? What? You wanna look like you’re six?”
    â€œDon’t take this the wrong way, baby, but that’s made for somebody with a much smaller ass.”
    A word of advice—choosing a wedding dress by committee is a seriously bad idea.
    She looks up at me, tears glittering in her eyes.
    â€œWhy don’t you give it a rest for a moment?” I say.
    â€œYeah,” Joanne says, brushing cookie crumbs off her front. “Maybe we should talk about the bridesmaids’ dresses?”
    Panic streaks across Heather’s face. “We can’t do that! Tina’s not here!”
    Oh, yeah, like this poor woman needs one more opinion. “Heather?” I sit down beside her, put my arm around her