Maid of Dishonor

by Laura Barcella

Silent seething, then: “I shouldn’t have to beg you to come. You’re my maid of honor,” she pleaded, voice rising. “Though you haven’t done sh*t for me so far.”

I was swallowed by sudden rage. Who was this diva demanding that I shell out my precious time and money on another stupid dinner? “It’s not all about you, Allie!” I screamed. “I have a life, you know, even though you barely ask me about it! F**k you!”

And so all of the frustrations I’d been repressing—about our friendship, about my stagnant love life, about living up to Allie’s overpriced expectations of me—escaped from my mouth like a bottle exploding.

A few minutes later, my phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it hit voicemail before listening to a strange, Splenda-sweet message from Becky, one of Allie’s bridesmaids.

“Hi Laura, Allie’s decided that she’d feel more comfortable if you don’t take part in the wedding festivities. Call me if you have any questions; thanks!”