The Saint

At the altar she met Søren’s eyes only briefly before taking her place at the far left facing the congregation. The other four bridesmaids joined her in a line.

The entire church rose when Diane appeared in the doorway resplendent in her white dress and veil. Eleanor stared over Diane’s shoulder at the back wall of Sacred Heart. She didn’t want to look at Diane, the bride, and didn’t want to look at James, the groom. She wanted to look at Søren, the priest, but if she were to make it through the entire ceremony without turning into a basket case, she had to keep her eyes anywhere but on him. Since she couldn’t will herself to disappear, she ignored the wedding happening around her entirely.

She felt like the butt of a joke today. Nearly one year ago Søren had dismissed her from his life, erected a wall around himself and ordered her to stay behind it. Go be a normal teenager, he’d said. So she’d left him. They hadn’t spoken one word to each other in months. And now she stood at the altar as he performed a wedding ceremony for someone else.

She had no one to blame but herself for this pain she felt watching Søren perform his secretary’s wedding. Diane needed a fifth bridesmaid to even out the numbers with the groomsmen. Eleanor had told her no at first, knowing how painful it would be, but Diane had begged and cajoled and since she’d given Eleanor rides for the past year, Eleanor felt like she owed her something. She couldn’t give her gas money so she put on the damn dress, pasted on a fake smile and walked down a church aisle toward the man she loved more than life itself, knowing with every step that she would never have her own wedding with him.

Walking on broken glass would hurt less than walking down that aisle.

As Søren began the ceremony, quoting Bible verses of love and devotion that caused everyone in the church to sigh and weep, Eleanor tuned him out. She’d gotten good at that in the past year.

During the reception, Eleanor sat with the youngest two groomsmen, drank champagne and pretended to flirt. Søren stayed for an hour and talked to people. He ignored her, of course. Ignored her as much as she ignored him. She knew he ignored her because she watched him ignore her for the entire hour he ignored her.

“I need another drink,” Eleanor said, and the bride’s younger brother, who had apparently fallen in love with her cle**age, hurried to fetch her another glass of champagne.

Søren left the reception and Eleanor danced with the groomsman. She wanted to go home and sleep, but she promised to stay to the bitter end.

The party finally broke up at one in the morning. Diane and James ran through a hail of birdseed on their way to the waiting limousine. Ten minutes later the fellowship hall had turned into a ghost town. About goddamn time.

Eleanor went into the pantry of the food bank she’d set up last year and dug through the bag of clothes she’d stashed there. She yanked the flowers out of her hair and tossed them in the trash before shimmying out of the skirt of her two-piece bridesmaid’s dress. She pulled on her jeans and slammed her feet into tennis shoes, sighing with relief at getting rid of her high heels. The bodice of her sleeveless dress proved a bit trickier. She couldn’t get the zipper unstuck. Damn Diane and her “two-piece A-line dress with Empire waist—oh, my God, it’ll look so good on you, Elle” bullshit. They should have all worn jeans and T-shirts.

She growled loudly, swore violently. And in the silence that followed, she heard a man laughing.

“Do you need some help in there, Eleanor?”

Søren? What the hell? She rolled her eyes and made another failed attempt to get the zipper down.

“I’m stuck in my dress. Do you have scissors or knives or guns or anything?”

“You need a gun to remove your dress?”

“Once I get it off, I’m putting it out of its misery.”

“Is it that serious?” Søren came back to the pantry. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He’d already beaten her to the jeans-and-T-shirt punch. In all the time he’d served as pastor at Sacred Heart she’d only seen him out of his clerics twice before. If the pope ever saw Søren in a pair of jeans His Holiness would probably order all the clergy to switch to that new uniform. Church attendance would skyrocket.

“I’m trapped.”

Søren cocked his eyebrow at her. “Turn around.”

“Are you going to cut it off? Do we need to call an ambulance?”

“Lift your hair up and hold still.”

She dug her fingers into her hair and held it while Søren gripped the fabric of the dress and pulled it out from her skin. After a few seconds of tugging, the zipper finally budged.

Eleanor tried to take over for him, but he seemed intent on pulling it all the way down. Who was she to argue with him, especially when his fingertips brushed the bare skin of her lower back?

“Better?” he asked.

“Thank God. I thought I’d die in this stupid dress.” Søren turned his back to her while she pulled the rest of her dress off, put on a bra and slithered into her white T-shirt.

“It’s not a stupid dress. You looked lovely in it.”

“Lovely? That bustier top pushed my tits up to my neck.”

“But in such a lovely way.”

Eleanor stuffed the dress into her bag and pulled her hair up into a ponytail all while glaring at him. She wanted to be happy he was here talking to her but she couldn’t get over her anger. Over a year of the cold shoulder could not be forgiven with one compliment on her tits.