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The wedding is ridiculous and the next day through the haze of the worst hangover she's had since she was twenty three, Andie can barely remember any of it.
She barely remembers being raised up on a chair, giddy with chardonnay and adrenaline, and holding on for dear life to her chair with one hand, the other hand playing tug of war with Toby and a white handkerchief. She barely remembers dancing a hora with Molly and Huck and Toby in a tight circle and all the people she loves most in the world circling fiercely around them. She barely remembers Toby dancing the Charleston, which part of her is convinced must be a wine dream, in spite of the numerous photographs on her instagram page.
She barely remembers Toby stomping on a glass and him pausing, alongside her, thinking about all the people who couldn't make it. Thinking about Molly's namesake, about Leo and Jed and Abbey, about Walter Hufnagle and Dolores Landingham and Percy Fitzwallace and the sheer immensity of the thing that they are doing right now. The commitment to life they are making.
She barely remembers kissing Toby. A lot of times. She barely remembers him kissing her a few as well. She barely remembers seeing a look on his face she's never seen before, a look of happiness, and thinking about how far he's come. How far they've both come.
She barely remembers throwing the bouquet. She barely remembers dancing with CJ and Danny, with Donna and Josh, with Sam and Ed and Larry and Ainsley and Amy and Margaret and maybe some of those people weren't actually there, maybe she didn't really dare to invite a Republican to Toby's wedding, but the truth is she doesn't remember much from last night, so she can make up whatever memories she wants.
The memories aren't the important thing, anyway. The important thing is waking up the next morning in bed, with Toby snoring next to her, and a golden band on his left hand that she keeps snatching peeks at to make sure it's real. the important thing is that somehow, this is all real. There's nothing barely about it. Happy seventieth, darling, she whispers so quietly she can't hear herself, and then she lets herself drift back to sleep.
