The Freedom in Giving Up

The wedding attendees rushed to the side of the boat as the water closed over me. I could hear their shouts even as the water covered my ears. A sense of resignation cascaded over me. The water chilled my already wind-bitten skin. And truthfully, this wasn’t even the worst part of my day.

6:30am (13 hours earlier)

For the record, my alarm was set for 6:45. But while those extra 15 minutes of sleep meant the world to me, they apparently meant nothing to my boss. I’m not sure where the line is supposed to be drawn for what is actually in my job description and what feels like overstepping conventional labor laws, but when I agreed to help organize her schedule for the wedding, I meant making sure that her meetings were rescheduled, not undertaking the majority of wedding planning.

I certainly did not expect that work to be piled on top of not only my regular work, but the work Gillian refused to do as she didn’t want to get stress acne before her big day – as if stress acne from six months prior would still show on her wedding day. Gillian’s engagement meant that for six and a half days a week, I was scrambling to read manuscripts, book spa appointments, order reception centerpieces, and hand write the save-the-dates in addition to the actual invitations.

“Hello,” I croaked, then cursed myself. She would almost definitely make a comment about that.

“Peggy? Are you only just getting up? Don’t tell me you’re sick.” A faux-worried voice crackled through the broken speaker on my phone.

Pushing my covers away, I swung my feet out of the bed and into the air of the frigid air conditioner. “No, no. Just haven’t spoken to anyone yet today.”

There was a slight pause on the other line. “Oh, so you haven’t confirmed everything with the venue today? It’s okay. I’m sure you will as soon as you can.”

I rubbed a tired hand across my eyes, wondering if I should bother searching for my glasses. “Well, the venue isn’t open right now, and I triple-checked everything last night. I can call again as soon as they’re open.”

“Mmmm,” Gillian hummed as though she was barely listening. “And don’t forget to gather the bridesmaids to be at the spa by 9.”

“Of course. I’m just finishing up the centerpieces now.” I grumbled then immediately regretted it.

“The centerpieces aren’t done? Peggy, I gave you such an important job because I thought you could handle it. You know how difficult this is for me. I cannot be stressed today.”

One thing that always infuriated me was how Gillian’s voice always remained calm and light, like everything was a song to her, no matter how miserable she made others.

“And do not forget to make sure each bridesmaid gets her assigned bouquet.”

I couldn’t even match the bridesmaid to their name, having never met them, but I rattled off an affirmative noise. “Did you pick up the wedding dress at the bridal shop?” I asked, feeling breathless already.

Gillian just scoffed. “You know the bride’s only job on their wedding day is to be pampered. Details are for you to figure out.”

“Of course, it’s just that the bridal shop says only the bride can pick it up-”

“I don’t want to hear excuses on today of all days.” Her voice trilled through the phone, and I considered breaking it. If I went MIA, surely she would get this done on her own. But that would mean I was out of a job, probably with a scathing recommendation against hiring me again. I didn’t want to be an assistant forever.

“I’ll figure it out.” I just had to go and cry and beg probably. Maybe they would take pity on a girl in her late twenties who clearly threw away what was supposed to be the golden years over someone who was supposed to help me break into the publishing industry rather than force me to make baristas cry when they got her order wrong.

“Be sure that you do. Oh, and send a picture of those finished centerpieces before seven. I don’t want to sit around worrying about them.”

Before seven. So I had twenty minutes to find a hot glue gun in this shoddy excuse for a hotel and glue the individual shells to the fake flower stem. It was almost definitely impossible. When Gillian said I could accompany her to her wedding at one of the mansions in Rhode Island, I thought that I would get to experience the Gilded Age. But since I was ‘the help’ and not a guest, I had to find a sorry little hotel on the border of Rhode Island and Massachusetts and pray I wouldn’t be murdered. A sorry little hotel that had a lot of things, including a plethora of spiders and centipedes, but almost definitely not a hot glue gun. And Michaels wouldn’t be opening until 9 am.

I could tell her it wasn’t possible, and I would do it when I could. But I wasn’t in my position because I was good at telling people no.

“I’m on it.”

“Good.” She hung up without another word, leaving me to my impossible tasks.

It took fifteen minutes of praying and five minutes of pure hyperventilating, but I managed to use some nail and lash glue to place the shells on the stem. It would work for now, and I could find a hot glue gun when I went to go beg for the wedding dress to reinforce it.

The actual ceremony would take place on a yacht off the shore, and the rest of the reception would occur at the mansion. I assumed I would board the yacht to help with the ceremony, but Gillian never mentioned anything to me about the reception, and I was too afraid to ask. But being on a boat meant hair should go up. I had practiced doing a braided bun for about a week before realizing that my hair wasn’t thick enough. A wispy bun that hopefully looked intentionally messy was the only route I had.

Reminding myself that I needed Gillian’s connections in the publishing world, a mantra that kept me sane, I got ready as quickly as I could then loaded the centerpieces into my rental car, wrapping them in various sweatshirts and extra clothing.

It took 30 minutes of calling up all the bridesmaids to actually get them to the spa on time. Most of them did not take kindly to being woken up by a stranger, and apparently Gillian had told them a completely different time for the spa appointment. But they eventually listened, though not until they shouted some very colorful language at me.

Now, for the dress. At 8:55, I was sitting outside the entrance to the bridal shop, crouched on the ground. The dress was supposed to be ready a month ago, but apparently when Gillian tried it on last week, she declared there weren’t nearly enough gems and sent it back so that the designers could fret over it for several long days and nights that involved several teary phone calls to me.

The owner of the store opened the doors at 9:01, and I was on my feet instantly. I had debated on my strategy on the way over. Would they respond better if I demanded the dress? Or would tears make them cave? I was wearing waterproof mascara. It wouldn’t take that much to fix my makeup after.

“Hello,” I addressed the woman fixing a beautiful gown on a mannequin. “I’m here for Gillian Mayfair’s dress. I know the bride is supposed to be the one picking it up-”

“It’s over here.” She offered me a smile that looked tired and a bit forced.

My eyebrows flew upwards. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? Nothing had been this easy for the duration of her entire engagement.

The woman led me to a rack where there were several dresses in garment bags. With a heavy sigh that betrayed how exhausted she might be, she plucked the one off the far end and lifted it into my hands.

I nearly buckled under the weight. This thing felt enormous. She wanted to go on a boat wearing something this heavy?

I cleared my throat, turning towards the woman. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this saves me.”

Her smile turned sympathetic. “Just between us, when this one inevitably ends in divorce, don’t bring her back here for her next wedding dress.”

A heavy awkwardness filled me. I’d had to defend Gillian before after she’d acted badly to others. “Her next wedding?”

“No one with an attitude like that stays married for long. Though I hope you get away from her before then.”

I hoisted the dress over my shoulder, trying to be mindful in case it was fragile. With a smile that was hopefully more pleasant than resigned, I said, “Gotta get that promotion.”

It was something I had repeated to my parents when I had to miss holidays or birthdays, though it didn’t make anyone feel better.

Having miraculously attained the dress, I just had to drop it off at the spa where Gillian and her bridesmaids were getting pampered. By now they might be on to the facials, having done the mud baths first thing. When I was booking the spa package, I was so jealous. Gillian did not pay me enough to get to take a mud bath.

I was hoping to just leave the dress with the staff and scurry away, but I wasn’t quite lucky enough to miss running into the maid of honor. I had only met her twice before, but she was heinous both times.

“Did you get the dress?”

“Yup. Just dropped it off with the staff.” I gave her an equally fake smile.

Without another word, she turned around to leave, and my inhales became easy once again. Until I heard the other bridesmaid ask her who I was.

“Oh, some assistant who thinks that Gillian will promote her if she runs around fast enough.”

“And she won’t?”

Elouise’s laugh pinged off the tiles of the spa. “Oh, God no.”

I could feel my heart in my throat. Even long after they turned the corner, I felt as though I could still hear her laugh. The ghost of a dream taunting me.

I wanted to believe it wasn’t true, but the sinking intuition in my gut told me it was. I had tried to ignore every time she waved her hand at me asking about my salary, or changed the subject when I asked about making connections.

It was useless.

It was out of the habit of following orders that brought me to the docks where the ship was. Everything was weightless. There was no hope keeping me tethered to the job, nothing keeping me tethered to the ground. I had wasted three years running around, doing whatever she asked. And it was for nothing.

The rest of the prep time actually went quickly. A nice man, whose name turned out to be Gavin, helped me glue the centerpieces and set the flower arrangements. Apparently he was one of the deckhands and his job was to keep the yacht running smoothly, but he had signed up to help with the wedding preparation.

The longer I talked to him, the easier it was to breathe. It felt so nice to be helped, to have someone consider my own feelings. Things went faster with his help and the help of his colleagues. Soon, the yacht was covered in flower arrangements and twinkling lights, and the lower deck was ready for the after-ceremony cocktail hour that Gillian had insisted on.

For the first time in months, dread didn’t knot my stomach when I heard Gillian’s voice, but the first thing she said to me was that it was understandable that I would flirt with the first guy I saw on her wedding day. Gavin had cleared his throat at that comment and left to find the captain. The sight of his back as he walked away caused me to deflate more than I wanted to admit. Another piece of my life taken away for no reward.

Soon I was thrust back into the same role again. Absorbing snide comments like a pin cushion being stuck as I tried to give the bridesmaids their bouquets and trying to bribe Gillian’s screaming nephew with chocolate so that he would stop running around the ice sculpture.

By the time we took our seats for the wedding, I was running on a people-pleasing autopilot. The nephew had been told to stay by me, mostly because his parents didn’t want to deal with the fact that he never stopped yelling or throwing things on the floor. I wasn’t quite sure how eight-year olds were supposed to act, but I hoped it was better than this one.

The rest of the fiasco felt like it happened to someone else. It was sunset, and the yacht had found a spot off the coast. As Gillian began to walk down the aisle, the nephew got up to run towards her. He wasn’t a fan of other people getting the spotlight. Before he could make it to the aisle, I grabbed his arm to pull him back to his seat, but that only made him scream.

Nobody did anything. His parents did nothing at all. Gillian only glared at me, her face growing red underneath her veil. But she didn’t do anything. She just let it happen. For all that I had ever done for her, she let the kid turn around and start kicking and pushing at me, wailing and trying to bite me. Even as I began to retreat backwards as he continued to push and yell, no one did anything. All of her horrible friends and family just watched as a gremlin child bit me in the arm and ran into me at full speed, sending me over the railing.

The wedding attendees rushed to the side of the boat as the water closed over me. I could hear their shouts even as the water covered my ears. A sense of resignation cascaded over me. The water chilled my already wind-bitten skin. But there was another feeling filling me. In the freezing Atlantic ocean, I finally felt free.

And as I resurfaced to hear Gillian screaming at me from the yacht, it was the happiest moment of my life when I turned around and swam towards the shore.