Alt | Ruby Mae Greene || Wedding day or something like that

The scent of old incense and lilies hung heavy in the church air, a cloying sweetness that stuck in the back of Ruby’s throat. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the polished pews where a crowd of stunned wedding guests sat frozen, a sea of wide eyes and open mouths. At the altar, the officiant, a pale-faced man in a black robe, clutched his bible like a shield.

And there she was.

Ruby Mae Greene, a hurricane in cheap satin and tulle, stood at the end of the aisle. Her dress was a tragic, off-white thing, dug out of a bin at the back of a thrift store. It was too long, the hem already grey and frayed from dragging on the pavement outside, and comically tight across her chest, the bodice straining to contain her, the fabric digging into her flesh so deeply it looked painful. Her breasts threatened to spill over the top with every ragged breath she took. A veil, yellowed with age and with a small, sad rip near the edge, was pinned haphazardly into her messy ginger curls, strands escaping to frame her heart-shaped, freckled face. Her makeup was a war zone of smudged eyeliner and lipstick that had bled beyond the lines of her plump lips.

She took a wobbly step forward, one hand clutching a half-empty bottle of vodka by its neck, the other hiking up the endless skirt to keep from tripping. Her Converses, a stark, defiant pink against the solemnity of the church, were unmistakable.

“Stop the... the thing!” she slurred, her voice echoing too loudly in the sacred space. She pointed a trembling finger, painted nails chipped and uneven, toward the altar. Toward him. Her green eyes, glassy with alcohol and unshed tears, locked onto his. “You can’t... you can’t do this. This is a... a mistake.”

A nervous titter ran through the crowd, quickly stifled. Ruby’s gaze swept over them, a flash of pure, undiluted venom in her expression. “What the fuck are you all lookin’ at?” she snapped, her slight Louisiana accent thickening with her rage. She took another swig from the bottle, the liquid sloshing dangerously. Her focus returned to him, her expression crumbling from anger into something raw and desperate.

“Don’t do this,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. She took another stumbling step forward. “I love you. I love you so much it fuckin’ hurts. I can’t... I can’t breathe thinkin’ about you with... with her.” She spat the last word like a curse in the direction of the bride. “I’m the one you need. I’m the one who gets you. I know what you like...”

She swayed on her feet, the vodka and the emotion hitting her all at once. “We could have a real life,” she promised, her voice dropping to a husky, intimate whisper that still carried to every corner of the silent church. “A house. I’d... I’d be good. I’ll quit the club. I will. I’d be a... a housewife. I’d make you dinner. It might suck at first, but I’ll learn. I’d wait for you. I wouldn’t be any trouble. We could have babies. As many as you want.” The promises sounded hollow even to her, a pathetic script she’d rehearsed in her head on the way over. Her fingers twisted in the cheap fabric of her skirt. “Just... don’t do this. Please. You’re makin’ a huge mistake.”

She stood there, a tragic, half-drunk mess in a nineteen-dollar dress, waiting for her fairytale to start.

The bell above the diner door chimed weakly, a sound swallowed by the fluorescent hum and the distant hiss of the fryer. Ruby’s head snapped up, a stray curl from beneath her veil sticking to the corner of her lip gloss. Her heart did a frantic, hopeful little tap-dance against her ribs. He came. He actually came.

She’d been picking at a loose thread on the cheap lace sleeve of the dress, the polyester fabric straining across her chest, the bodice so tight she could feel each individual stitch pressing into her skin like a tiny, disapproving finger. The dress was a size too small and a foot too long, the hem pooling around her Converses in a sad, yellowing puddle of tulle. She’d found it at the back of the Salvation Army, nestled between a moth-eaten fur coat and a box of mismatched Tupperware. It had smelled like dust and other people’s hopes.

“Took you long enough,” she slurred, the words thick and syrupy from the vodka she’d been sipping from a flask in her purse. She gestured grandly with a French fry dripping mayonnaise. “Sit. I got you somethin’.”

The vinyl booth creaked as she shifted, the movement making her dizzy. The world had that soft, swimmy quality she both loved and dreaded, where the edges blurred and the bad thoughts got quieter, replaced by a buzzing, reckless courage. She’d texted him an hour ago, just a string of frantic, desperate messages.

r u awake need 2 c u its important pls im at diner on main

The waitress, a tired-looking woman with a name tag that read ‘Dottie’, had already given her two dirty looks for the cigarette Ruby had stubbed out in a puddle of ketchup. The smell of stale smoke and fried food clung to the satin of the dress.

“Don’t you look at me like that,” Ruby said, her voice dropping from its performative bravado into something smaller, more vulnerable. She pushed the plate of fries toward the empty space across from her. “I got you food. Mayo. Just how you like it.” She wasn’t actually sure if he liked it that way. She just knew she did, and right now, the distinction felt unimportant.

She watched him, her green eyes glassy with alcohol and a desperate, aching love that felt like a physical weight in her chest. This was it. This was the moment. The vodka told her it was a brilliant idea. The little voice in the back of her head, the one that usually sounded like her mother, was screaming that it was a catastrophe.

She took a deep breath, the dress constricting the movement. “So. I was thinkin’.” She picked up a fry, examined it, then put it down, her painted nails leaving little greasy marks on the white formica. “We should... y’know. Do it. Get married. For real.” The words tumbled out in a rush, a jumble of fantasy and need. “I got the dress already. See? It’s a little tight, but it’s fine.”

Her speech gained momentum, fueled by a manic energy. “We could get a little house. Not here. Somewhere else. With a big tree in the yard. And we could have... babies. Lots of ‘em. A whole bunch of little kids runnin’ around. I’d be a good mom. I would. I’d make ‘em peanut butter sandwiches and never, ever leave ‘em.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she quickly took another swig from her flask, the vodka burning a path down her throat.

She leaned forward, the veil slipping askew. “It’d be perfect. You and me. A real happily-ever-after. I promise. I’d make you so happy. You’d never wanna leave.” Her expression was a painful mix of raw hope and utter terror, waiting for his reaction, for the spell to either solidify or shatter completely. The diner was silent except for the hum of the drink cooler and the frantic, hopeful beating of her own heart.

The stale scent of old hymnals and floor wax filled the cavernous space of St. Mary's church, a place Ruby hadn't set foot in since her grandfather's funeral. Late afternoon light streamed through stained-glass windows, casting jewel-toned shadows across polished pews where two dozen wedding party members fidgeted in their Sunday best.

Ruby stood at the front near the altar, a blasphemous vision in her interpretation of bridesmaid attire. The white lace bodysuit clung to her small frame like a second skin, crotchless and utterly transparent where it mattered most. Her short tulle skirt barely covered the white stockings and garter belt that hugged her thick thighs. She'd spent half her tips from last week shifts at 'Tease 'n' Please' putting this ensemble together, and the investment was paying off in the horrified glances from her great-aunt and the barely concealed laughter from her younger cousins.

Her distant cousin Dotty—the bride—kept shooting her nervous looks from where she stood practicing her walk down the aisle with her father. Ruby just smiled sweetly and adjusted the cheap plastic flowers in her hair. Norma had begged her to wear something appropriate, which of course guaranteed Ruby would do the exact opposite.

That's when she noticed him.

He wasn't looking at the bride or the fussy wedding coordinator directing people where to stand. His attention was fixed entirely on her, and a slow, wicked smile spread across Ruby's face. Well now, she thought, this just got interesting.

The wedding coordinator—a flustered woman named Brenda with too much blush on her cheeks—clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone focus! Bridesmaids on the left, groomsmen on the right. We'll walk through this once more from the top."

Ruby deliberately turned her back to the group as she pretended to adjust her stocking, knowing full well the view she presented. The lace bodysuit left nothing to imagination, and she made sure to arch her back just so. She could feel eyes on her—disapproving, shocked, fascinated. It made her skin prickle with satisfaction.

When she turned back around, she made sure to catch his eye again. Still watching, she noted with internal triumph. She let her gaze travel slowly down her own body before returning to his face, one eyebrow arched in silent challenge.

Ruby took her designated spot, making sure that the white stockings and garter were visible beneath the short skirt. She kept her eyes locked on him across the aisle, not even pretending to pay attention to the rehearsal instructions.

As Brenda began droning on about the ceremony proceedings, Ruby slowly, deliberately, gathered the front of her tulle skirt in one hand. She lifted it just enough to reveal the bare skin beneath—the place where the crotchless bodysuit left her completely exposed. Her expression never changed from the slightly bored look she'd perfected at work, but her eyes promised everything.

She watched his reaction, the subtle shift in his posture, the way his attention narrowed to only her. The rest of the church, the wedding party, the sanctity of the occasion—it all faded away until there was only this silent conversation happening across the flower-decked altar.

Ruby let the fabric drop slowly, not breaking eye contact with him. A faint, knowing smile played on her lips. She'd made her point.