14. The Lockout
EVA
Ibarrel through the bridal shop door on West’s heels, both of us huffing. Skye is in a velvet sweatsuit, looking like she’s ready to smack Paige if only she could get to her.
“Thank God!” Skye waves us over to the dressing room. “Paige can’t get the zipper down, and she won’t let us help. You gotta talk some sense into her.”
“Paige,” I squawk at the door, tapping a stiletto against the plush carpet. “It’s a freaking zipper.”
“Hey, zippers can be real bitches,” West mutters.
“Thanks, West.” Paige hiccups. “Right?”
“We can’t help until you let us in.” I push up the sleeves of my blouse. Time to go into sister-saving mode.
“We need soap.” West is scanning the room. “I’ll go to the bathroom.”
“I’ll get it,” Skye says. “You two just work on Paige.”
Paige sniffles. “If you pull too hard it’s going to ruin the dress.”
The seamstress comes over to me, whispering, “I’ve told her I can take the whole zipper out. She won’t listen.”
I rap on the door again, more sharply. “Paige, honey, this is about more than the zipper. What’s going on?”
“Eves!” Paige’s voice is muffled by what sounds like a ball of Kleenex. “This thing is a freakin’ Victorian corset! I must’ve gained a lot of weight.”
“No way,” I shoot back. “I’ve seen you naked, unfortunately. And if anything, you’ve lost inches.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m being hugged by a boa constrictor?”
“There obviously was a mistake.” I lean against the door. “But we can’t deal with that until you let us in.”
“No.”
“Trust me, P, you look fantastic.” I sigh. “Remember when we were teenagers? You managed to shimmy out of Marisa Harrison’s leather slutwear? This is easy compared to that.”
“That was bad.”
“Paige,” West cuts in, bar of soap in hand. “I’ve got a master’s degree in stuck zippers.”
“From where, Harvard?” Paige says.
“Close. My parents’ sex shop. Those mannequins are unyielding bastards, but I always get them dressed.” The corner of his mouth twitches up.
“Impressive.” Paige’s tone is dry. “But we’re talking about a bridal gown here, not some PVC nurse outfit.”
“Trust me, they’re not different when it comes to zippers.” West crosses his arms over his tee.
A beat passes, then another. Finally, a shaky sigh filters through the door. “Maybe.”
“Paige,” Skye says before the silence stretches out too long, her voice hitting a pitch that could alert dogs. “If you don’t let us in, the owner is gonna call the fuzz. And wouldn’t that be a story? Bride Arrested for Dress Store Disturbance.”
I shoot Skye a look, and she shakes her head.
Behind the door, there’s a rustle then a pause. “You’re shitting me.”
“Would I lie?” Skye says, innocence lacing every syllable.
Paige’s sigh is long. “Fine.”
The lock clicks, and the door swings open. She stands there, mascara streaked and cheeks flushed, looking like a runaway bride. Her gown clings to her curves like a lovesick octopus, and she’s glaring at us as if we each sewed her into this nightmare.
She rushes up to me, pulling me into a hug. She squeezes tight, whispering, “Mom would’ve been able to fix this, Eves.”
My heart wrenches as I rub her back. “Yes, she would’ve.” Mom was an amazing seamstress, and now all this makes sense. “I’m sorry, sis.”
She sobs into my arms, and it brings me right back to those days after Mom died. The ones that live as a permanent fog in my head. When Paige was so fragile, I had to be with her every waking minute to talk her through each step of the day. Dad was grieving, and looking back, I realize now I was so busy taking care of both of them that I couldn’t grieve myself. It was impossibly hard, and sometimes, I wonder how we all made it through. But we did, and I couldn’t be more grateful and proud of us.
After I pull away, I wipe her tears. “Mom’s not here, but we are. And we’re gonna fix this, okay?”
She nods, sniffling.
“Ready to do my best work,” West says, stepping into the fray.
“Yes. Let West show off his obscure talent,” I mumble.
“I’m full of them.”
After running the bar along the zipper, West says, “Okay on three, I need you to inhale, Paige.” He has a bomb-defusing kind of concentration.
After he gives it several tugs, Paige’s shoulders hitch up around her ears and the damn thing still won’t budge—a zipper possessed, apparently.
“It’s like it’s welded shut!” West’s fingers slip off the zipper for the umpteenth time, almost poking Paige’s back. “Alright, new plan.” He steps back, eyeing the room, landing on an ice bucket with a frosted Champagne bottle in it. “We’re not thinking clearly. We need to calm our nerves. Champagne, anyone?”
“Right. Getting tipsy is always the solution,” Skye says, and I know for a fact that she’s being serious. So does West, and he fills the glasses.
“Thanks, West. Liquid problem-solving,” I say, snatching one from his hand. “Come on, Paige. It’ll make you care less about being sewn into your dress forever.”
“God, fine.” She grabs it from my hand and downs it faster than a freshman at a frat party.
“Cheers to zippers that unzip,” Skye toasts, tipping back her own drink.
West’s gaze fixates on a wire hanger discarded on a nearby vanity. “I have an idea.”
We look on as he untwists the hanger with a dexterity that suggests he’s done this before—probably during one of his more inventive moments at his family’s shop.
“Voilà,” West says, holding up his makeshift lever—a hook bent at a peculiar angle. “This will do it.”
“Should I be scared or impressed?” Paige eyes the contraption.
“Both,” Skye answers.
“Ready?” West positions the hook beneath the zipper’s pull tab.
“Hit me.” Paige braces herself against the dressing room wall.
“Oh, can I?” I keep a firm grip on the top of the dress.
“Here goes nothing.” With a careful tug of his wrist, West tries to coax the zipper down. It doesn’t move. “Come on,” he says, his voice low and steady.
“Don’t rip it, West.” My fingers pinch the fabric near Paige’s shoulder blades.
“I know, Manhattan.”
“Stop, West,” Skye says. “This isn’t working—we need to reposition. Paige, down you go.” She helps Paige lie on the floor face down. The dress’s beaded bodice glimmers under the fluorescent lights—reminding us why we can’t destroy what must be a gazillion-dollar gown.
Skye grabs the bottom; I pull the top, and West, in all his awkward glory, straddles Paige like she’s an exquisite white steed.
West clears his throat. “Sorry in advance for any butt smooshing.”
“Okay, team, on three,” Skye says. “One, two—”
“Three.” We pull in synchronized chaos.
West’s hands are steady, but he’s concentrating so hard he sticks his tongue out as he wields the hanger-turned-zipper-lever. It feels oddly intimate, this three-person operation to liberate Paige from her satin prison. Through the tension, I can’t help but notice how the muscles in West’s arms flex, how his dark eyes are flecked with determination. And for a fleeting moment, I wish it were my clothing he was so intent on removing.
“Damn zipper, move!” Sweat dots my forehead. This is more intense than any courtroom showdown. It gives a reluctant creak, inching its way along the track as if deciding whether to comply or launch into full revolt.
“It’s giving!” West says as the metal teeth grudgingly part ways. The sound is a symphony of relief.
“Keep going, West, you’re doing it!” Skye cheers.
“Thank God for mannequin dressing skills.” I breathe out. “Who needs Groomsman to Groom when you’re Houdini?” I say, though I bristle at the thought of him parading on that reality show, winning hearts right and left.
“Focus.” Teeth clenched, West is zeroed in on his task.
And in that instant, I realize we’re more than just a bride and her entourage wrestling with a dress; we’re a team, united against a common enemy—be it stuck zippers, doggie disasters, or our own tangled emotions.
“What other on-the-job skills did you acquire?” Skye’s laughter bubbles to the surface.
With one final tug from West, the zipper yields, and Paige is freed, collapsing into a heap of relieved sobs and cascading tulle. We fall around her, a tangle of limbs and emotions, the absurdity of our situation not lost on any of us.
“Look at you. Already training for menopause when you’ll gain thirty pounds overnight.” Skye helps Paige off the floor.
I brush a strand of hair from her damp cheek. “Even now, you’re still the most beautiful bride that ever was.”
“Thanks, twin sister.”
The seamstress peeks her head in. “I can add extra material on the sides of the zipper. It’ll be like this never happened.”
“See? There’s always a solution.” I exchange a look with West—a silent promise that no matter the challenge, we’ll tackle it together.
“Extra material?” Paige sniffles, her mood lifting like fog. “Like, expandable?”
“Exactly.” I squeeze her hand. “Consider it room for cake.”
“Or bloat,” Skye says. “There should always be room for a little bloat.”
I ask the seamstress to show me the paperwork that came with the dress, as it was shipped from New York where Paige selected it. It fit perfectly then. When we make it to the counter, the seamstress flips through the order forms until she finds it and hands it to me. There’s an alteration request to take it in. “What the hell?”
“What’s going on?” West peeks over my shoulder, his proximity sending a tingle down my spine that has no business being there.
“Look.” I jab my finger at the paper. “Why was this alteration request made? I certainly didn’t make it.” I call over the seamstress. “Excuse me, who made this alteration request?”
“I’m sorry, miss. I don’t know. It was like that when I received the paperwork. I can call the New York shop.”
“Please do, and thank you,” I say.
West’s eyes narrow. “First the pupcake fiasco with the dogs, then the double-booking, and now this?”
“I know.” I put a hand on my hip. “And every time there’s an issue, it’s impossible to trace who’s behind it. The dogs were ordered to be left alone by an unknown hotel staffer and same with the double-booking. Now, this alteration was made by a person at the shop in New York.”
“It’s like someone’s gunning to make problems for this wedding.”
“Right? What’s next, locusts?” My stomach churns. “This is starting to seem intentional.”
“Oh, clue me in.” Skye can’t hide the twitch of her lips.
I lower my voice. “Looks like we might have a saboteur.”
“But who?” West goes back into concentration mode.
I think about Olivia and how she was all over Zach. But that’s not enough to accuse her, so I say, “No idea. But nobody messes with my sister’s big day.”
Skye goes into a zone. “We need to investigate this and stop whoever’s behind it.”
“We’re on it,” West and I say in unison.
I remind myself that everything’s going to be fine. We’ve got this, and nothing is unfixable.
Skye cracks her knuckles. “Let’s roll some heads.”