Something new, something blue, something borrowed, and something cliché
By Morgan Hannah, Life & Style Editor
One set of high heeled legs after another, the group piled into the limo carrying any remaining Jell-O shots with them in each hand. I had an uneasiness flowing inside me with each step into the limo I took. Eye opening bursts of purple, blue, green, and red lights travelled up the sides of the limo as soft rock music blared from the speakers. Scarlet, dressed in white jeans and a black crop top, passed around flutes of champagne and the limo set off. For most of the ride, Billie and I stood up and surfed the stop and go of the limo through traffic, twisting our hips to the music. I just had to keep myself moving. Hilda, who had taken a seat beside me—despite the several open booths throughout the vehicle—watched us silently. I was secretly pleased when she and Ashley had a small argument over which song to play earlier. Determined not to let it ruin the night, the girls sat cross-legged and sipped on their flutes.
“So, ladies…” began Scarlet, “why haven’t we talked about how cute our driver is yet?” Ashley snorted, and the limo took a sharp corner, sending her careening into Scarlet’s lap. Billie and I stumbled back down in the booth. It was clear girl time was underway, and I was not interested. Our driver really was erratic tonight.
“I’m just about to get married, I can’t think he’s cute.” Louise pouted while her face was lit with eagerness.
“That’s when you’re supposed to find him cute!” Billie shouted,
“before it’s too late!” The others joined in on teasing the bride-to-be. While
my champagne sloshed aggressively onto my fingers, I caught myself wondering
what Bernie was doing and how the bachelor party was going. The thought seemed
to sneak up on me out of nowhere, but it was comforting—and a far better use of
my time than the conversation that was unfolding inside this limo. So, I went
ahead and imagined him and Joseph, Louise’s soon-to-be husband, smoking pot and
drinking while they barbecued the pounds and pounds of exotic meat Bernie
bought for the boys in Joseph’s backyard. Short of no dancing and no women, it
really seemed like the better of the two parties. I knew it was put together at
the last minute, but it was the best that Best Man Bernie could do living long
distance from his friend. I imagined Joseph was well past intoxicated at this
point, laughing and trying to stuff himself into his daughter’s Power Wheels Jeep.
Bernie, who couldn’t get drunk for the life of him, would be in charge of the
grill. I thought of taking a picture of the group to send to the guys when I
heard Hilda’s voice. She was screaming.
“Guys,
I think the fucking driver just bailed!” Silence fell over the limo, save for
some remixed version of “Don’t Stop Believing.” The girls launched themselves
up from their seats and over to the windows. Billie ran up to the front of the
limo and banged against the divider that separated our driver from the back of
the limo. The limo, now unmanned, lurched and shook as if a giant hand was
pushing it around like a toy car. The girls inside squealed and I clutched at
the upholstered booth, trying not to knock heads with Hilda. The bottle of
champagne rolled around at our feet and came to a smashed stop into the divider
at the front of the limo. They say to hold your friends close, and your enemies
closer, but I couldn’t tell who I was with that night, and I couldn’t tell what
happened next—because I died inside that limo. Along with every single one of
those women around me.
