Alora could sense that it was morning, but her brain fumbled to allow thoughts to break through. Her skull throbbed, and when she moved to rub her eyes, she realized her face was still caked in makeup, and her fists came back flecked with day-old mascara and sticky foundation. Her stomach lurched. Holy shit, she was married now.
She smiled as she recalled a few pristine moments. Pop music blaring over the PA, Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close forever and ever? she had caught her father’s eye, and he’d asked, eyes wide with delight, “Honey, who is this?” “Taylor Swift!” she’d shouted, and he’d returned a thumbs up. Working backward, she replayed her niece’s tumble as she tore down the aisle to deliver Alora’s wedding ring. She’d popped back up, undeterred, and sprinted the rest of the way to the altar to complete her quest, earning chuckles from the audience. Alora recalled the wisdom shared by her older sister, Mena, as she sat in the salon chair in the dawn hours of this long day, pondering her own marriage, and love, and voicing concern for Alora’s happiness. “You really want this? Then go for it,” she’d said, her trembling voice betraying compassion long masked by years of sibling rivalry. “I’ll be here for you no matter what.”
The sun set, muddling the certainties of her world, and while the moonlight competed with the fairy lights entwining their evening jubilee, drinks were poured and intelligent conversations dwindled and Alora found herself alone on the dance floor, sweating out a menagerie of musings around womanhood and societal pressures and desire to Get Low by Lil Jon. She felt ensnared and liberated all at once.
The best man, Blake, guided her off the floor at some late hour, and broke the news to her that she simultaneously wanted to hear and didn’t. “I don’t think this is right for him. I don’t think it’s right for you.” She shouldered him aside and beelined back to the dance floor, yielding her body to the beat of the music until there was no more. Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody … With somebody who loves me…
Whitney Houston’s vibrato faded out in her memory, the blades of her hangover piercing every thought. She stared blankly at the ceiling, then forced herself to look to her side, where her husband was still sleeping. He looked at peace, though his necktie was askew and a sticky substance had landed here—fondue, she guessed, from the second-shift snack tray that had been wheeled out for the late-night revelers.
A loud knock sounded from the hotel door. “Matched at the Altar crew!” came a voice. Three figures bearing cameras and equipment glided in, and Alora bolted upright, running fingers through her hair to try to tame it. She shook the man beside her awake. “They’re back,” she said.
He groaned and peered up at her. “We’re not doing this, right?” he mumbled.
“No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
“Wait a minute,” one of the crew said, pulling open the curtain to let the sunlight in. “Say that again.”