“Love is not a fairytale, Campbell. Not even close,” my mother told me once, when she was reading me a book of bedtime stories. It was late, we’d just finished Sleeping Beauty, and with bleary eyes I told her I hoped to find a prince like Phillip someday.
It wasn’t much longer after that when she and my father sat me down and told me my “prince” had already been chosen for me. I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, still very much in my princess era.
I beamed with excitement and elation as they told me his name, that he was the son of an old family friend, that I’d be meeting him soon, and that his family was “practically royalty” which made him as good as a real-life prince.
After that, they explained that he and I would be exchanging letters to get to know one another.
Months later, as they handed me the first piece of correspondence—a letter sealed in a scarlet red envelope—I carefully tore the flap, my stomach in knots with anticipation and the first flutters of what I could only imagine was true love.
Boys had written me love notes at school, but I’d never received one from someoneone who was almost royalty … one who promised to be my prince someday.
“Campbell, what’s wrong?” my father asked when tears sprang from my eyes after I read it. Rushing to my side, he swiped the red envelope and its matching letter from my little hands. “Oh, for crying out loud.”
“What does it say?” Mom asked.
Dad released a heavy breath, handing it over to my mother so he didn’t have to read the words out loud.
A few seconds later, she cupped her hand over her mouth. “Why would he write that?”
But what did it matter?
My future husband wrote it, signed it, stamped it, and sent it, and there was no taking it back.
They say you never forget your first love or your first kiss.
But no one ever tells you that you never forget the first time a boy tells you he hates you.
.
Campbell—
I hate you.
Slade (age 8)
Slade—
I hate you times infinity and you will never, ever, ever be my prince.
Campbell (age 7)
2
Campbell
“What about this one?” I point to a heart-shaped wreath composed of pink and white carnations as my mother follows the florist around a heavenly-scented shop that’s been a Sapphire Shores mainstay for almost seventy years.
Mom stops cold in her color-blocked Chanel heels and shoots me a death look. “Campbell.”
“Those are actually meant to go beside caskets,” the florist says before clearing her throat and adding, “at funerals and memorials.”
I know this, but I play dumb.
If I can’t have a funeral dress, what about funeral flowers?
This entire celebration is about uniting two families who would have united us regardless of anything. I could have had eight extra appendages and Slade could be exclusively attracted to men and our parents would still be forcing this unholy union on us.
If this day isn’t about either one of us, can’t I at least have something?
I don’t think funeral flowers are asking too much—I saw the invoice for the elaborate ice sculpture my mother chose for the reception.
This heart wreath costs a fraction of that, plus it’s a heart.
It’s practically wedding-themed.
“What about those?” I point to the planters of peace lilies lined up against the wall. Pretty sure I’ve seen those at funerals before.
Years ago, when we lost Granddad, our entire great room was filled with baskets upon baskets of them until my mother started passing them out to various staff members just to get them out of her sight.
“Darling, you’re in the wrong section. Come over here.” Mom waves me her way, though if the florist weren’t watching, she’d be snapping and pointing to the floor, treating me like a disobedient puppy. It’s not that she means to be like this, it’s just who she is. She’s a matriarch. A first-born female. She calls the shots everywhere she goes and she doesn’t have time to wait around—or play these little games. Over the years, I’ve learned to adapt to her whims, mostly via my sense of humor. Anything else runs the risk of landing me in hot water, and who has the energy for that?
Certainly not me.
If only my bridesmaids were here …
I could sure use Elise in my corner right about now, but I sent them all on their way after brunch. They’d already spent a perfectly good Wednesday morning with my mother and her antics—I wasn’t going to punish them by commandeering their perfectly good afternoons as well. They’d have stayed, of course, but I couldn’t do that to them.
“I’m absolutely in love with these ivory roses mixed with the lilacs and lavender,” my mother gushes to the florist. “Pale violet has always been Campbell’s color.”
Years ago, my mother took me to have my ‘colors’ analyzed. We walked away with a booklet full of mostly pastels and the second we got home, my mother proceeded to yank everything out of my closet that wasn’t a pastel.
For the months that followed, as I slowly rebuilt my wardrobe piece by piece, I walked around looking like a teenage Easter egg—not a flattering look by any stretch of the imagination.
“Wouldn’t these roses complement the ivory beading in your veil, Cam?” Mom carefully lifts a long-stemmed white rose to her nose and inhales before passing it to me. She closes her eyes, smiling gently, as if it’s the first time she’s ever sniffed a flower in her five decades on this planet.
“I mean, it does match the dress you chose for me,” I say. I won’t lie, the gown we settled on is gorgeous—a stunning ivory number with lace overlay, a curve-skimming trumpet skirt that pools out into a tasteful train, and a tiara veil with just enough teardrop pearl beading on the tulle to make my mother stop nitpicking every other detail.
The dress wasn’t as frou-frou as she’d have liked, but it was the last one I tried on and there was no denying it fit that whole American blue-blooded princess illusion Blythe Wakemont salivates over.
All Nico had to tell her was that Meghan Markle had once considered that very same gown before ultimately going with the Clare Waight Keller number, and Mom was sold. Her eyes lit like Christmastime in July.
If it was good enough for a princess—er, duchess—it’s good enough for the daughter of an American steel magnate marrying the son of an American media magnate.
“Shall we make this easy on Addison?” Mom bats her mascara-coated lashes, and while she’s speaking to me, she’s looking at the florist. I’ve only known Addison a handful of moments—long enough to ascertain she’s a people pleaser, a tiny bit shy, and very passionate about all things floral. But I can already see the dollar signs adding up in her eyes—not because of the flower selections, but because my mother has already mentioned at least half a dozen times that this will be one of the grandest weddings the state of Maine has ever seen. “Can we both agree on the ivory roses, lilacs, and lavender? I thought about maybe throwing in some of those gorgeous purple hydrangeas, but depending on the light, those can sometimes read more blue or blue-violet, and that’s too intense for what we’re wanting. Plus, hydrangeas scream spring to me and this is a late summer wedding. Anyway, are we settled? Can we move onto designing bouquets and centerpieces next?”