Chapter 26
AVA
“What about this one?” Rumi holds up a long white dress, cluttered with enough ruffles to make me dry-heave.
“Is that a joke?” Emerson asks before I can say something worse.
“I wasn’t sure what look she’s going for,” Rumi says, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s not like she’s being very forthcoming with what kind of dress she’s looking for.”
“She is right here,” I say, swiping through the hangers of white dresses.
After Emerson and Rumi knocked on my hotel door last night, the hazy memories of telling them on the plane that Anderson and I were planning on getting married this weekend all came back to me.
They stopped by to tell me they found some thrift stores in the Art District for us to go to before the concert, so here we are. Stop number three, and I never want to look at white dresses again.
“I already told you both, I don’t want this wedding to be a huge thing. We just need the marriage certificate for now. The real wedding can come later.”
The lie flows seamlessly off the tongue, and I hate how easy it’s getting to lie to my best friends.
The word “real” doesn’t even sound like a word to me anymore.
“Then how about this one?” Emerson asks, yanking out a sleek satin slip dress —simple and understated—something I could picture her wearing, her tattoos on full display, the white looking even starker against her black hair.
Rumi squints at it. “That’s less bride, more eloping-with-a-rockstar.”
Emerson grins, wiggling her brows. “We are in Vegas.”
I press the fabric between my fingers, soft and cool. “Closer, but it’s still too much for a generic ceremony and some paperwork.”
Rumi arches a brow. “Just some paperwork? Come on, Av. Where’s your sense of occasion?”
“Back home, where we’ll have our real wedding,” I lie again, grabbing the dress from Emerson and shoving it back on the rack. “This was your guys’ idea. I was just going to wear the sundress I packed.”
Emerson nudges me with her shoulder. “The yellow one? Don’t you think Anderson wants to see his wife in white?”
The mention of Anderson—being his wife—makes my stomach flip, my mind darting back to last night. His darkened gaze, the feeling of his body so close to mine, the bruising grip on my hip.
And I hate it.
I can’t believe I let myself get so close to him. Again.
After Rumi and Emerson left last night, Anderson went to explore the Strip with Jack, so I could get some rest. It took me a good twenty minutes to fall asleep, my adrenaline having spiked from Anderson’s dirty words in my ear.
The exhaustion I’ve been carrying this last week finally took over, and I slept like the dead for a few hours before I woke up to the hotel door clicking shut softly.
With only half an hour until we had to be downstairs, Anderson and I got ready both quickly and quietly, and then hurried to meet Rumi, Jack, and Emerson in the lobby.
One more thing to add to my list of what I’m avoiding addressing with him, right below the hair-washing incident.
When we returned from dinner, I got ready for bed in the bathroom, and then Anderson took his turn. I was asleep before he came out. But he kept his word and slept on the couch—I found him there when I woke up this morning.
Once again, I was thankful to be so tired I could sleep.
I don’t know if I would’ve been able to if I weren’t.
Rumi’s voice brings me back to the moment. “Okay. No ruffles. No satin. Minimal drama.” She pauses, scanning the rack. “But you’re not walking into a Vegas chapel looking like you borrowed a lab coat either.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “That I can agree with.”
“Deal,” Emerson says, already digging again. “But if you hate everything we pick, you’re actually going to have to tell us what you want.”
I sigh and turn back to the rack, flipping through stiff lace and yellowed hems—until something stops me.
It’s short. Simple. A little white dress with clean lines on a corset-style bodice and a subtle sweetheart neckline. The fabric is structured but soft—still. As if it were waiting for someone who needed it. I grab it from the rack and hold it up against me.
The white heels I packed for the concert tonight flash in my mind—sleek, rounded, just high enough to feel dangerous. They’d match perfectly.
Emerson turns to me, her expression shifting, “Oh.”
Rumi follows her gaze, her mouth falling open. “That’s the one.”
I smooth my hand down the front of it, imagining the moonlight, the neons, a quick signature, and a kiss that’s supposed to be pretend. “It’s not too much?” I ask quietly, more to myself than to my friends.
“It’s exactly enough,” Emerson replies.
Rumi suddenly gasps from the accessories bin by the register. “If we’re doing ‘exactly enough,’ then you need this.” She triumphantly lifts a simple fingertip-length veil, sheer and soft, the comb slightly bent but fixable.
I laugh, nervous and breathless all at once. “Absolutely not.”
Rumi grins, already stepping toward me. “Absolutely yes. You’re getting married in Vegas. Let us have one dramatic accessory. Please?”
“For us?” Emerson adds.
They both look at me with puppy-dog eyes, their lips jutting out dramatically.
I groan, and they take it as a yes.
Before I can protest, Rumi perches the veil carefully on my head, the thin layer of tulle falling around my shoulders, her hand lingering in my hair as she looks at me. She nods toward the mirror on the end of one of the metal racks.
“Well?” Emerson prompts, as I meet my reflection in the streaked glass.
The dress works. The heels will match. The veil flutters when I breathe.
And for just a second—there’s no playing pretend, no mask I’m holding over my face, no need for me to fake it.
For one terrifying, fragile second…
I’m a bride.
The longer I stare at my reflection, the tighter everything inside me begins to wind. Heat crawls over my skin, the walls seeming to inch closer with every inhale. I ache to start counting—sorting, straightening, anything that gives me the illusion of control.
“Are you guys done?” Jack’s voice booms from the other side of the thrift store, and I’m thankful for it. It gives me a moment of reprieve to get out of my head before I lose myself. “Sonny has his suit, so we’re good to go.”
Emerson grabs the dress and veil as Rumi yells to Jack that we’re done too, but to make sure Anderson stays out of sight, adding that it’s bad luck for him to see my dress.
I can’t help but laugh at just another silly tradition that there really isn’t any need for.
Heading toward the register, I see Anderson waiting by the front, holding a paper bag in one hand. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, and that stupid backwards baseball hat, his attention focused out the window and away from the check out area like Rumi requested.
What is it about turning a hat backwards that instantly makes a man more attractive?
“Find something good?” he asks as I walk over to him, his gaze not straying from outside.
“Good enough,” I answer, sticking my hands in the pockets of my jean shorts. “What about you?”
He nods. “I think so.”
“Can I see?” I ask, trying to peek into his bag.
“You’ll see it when it’s time,” he says, pulling the bag from my hands and finally looking at me, a smile spreading on his face.
I want to push him a little more—why would he be getting so flustered about me seeing a suit that I’m going to see tomorrow night?
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I try, but he shocks me with his answer.
“Absolutely not. You heard Rumi, it’s bad luck.”
I’m about to make a remark about not needing luck when we’re interrupted.
“Alright, lovebirds. We’ll meet you back at the hotel. How far do you have to go to get your marriage license?” Emerson asks.
“The place is just downtown,” Anderson answers. He’s the one who looked into the process of getting married here in Las Vegas when I told him my idea about getting it done this weekend.
I have a meeting with Patricia the day we get back to Milwaukee, and if all goes well, Georgie’s adoption will be approved by the end of the month.
“And there’s no waiting period?” Rumi asks as Jack grabs the bag with my dress and veil she’s holding.
Anderson shakes his head. “Vegas is famous for being able to get a marriage license and get married on the same day if you want.”
“Damn,” Emerson says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you guys are going to be married tomorrow. It doesn’t feel real, you know?”
Girl, you have no fucking idea.
Anderson and I both chuckle, and I wonder if it sounds as forced to our friends as it does to us. “What time is the car coming for us tonight?” I ask Emerson, changing the subject to our plans.
And with that, our conversation delves into what time we all need to be ready to leave for the concert tonight. Because of Emerson’s connection with the opener, we were able to get a car to take us to the venue and pick us up after.
I don’t drink, never wanted to after seeing what alcohol did to my mom, so I’m used to being the designated driver for these types of nights—it’s nice not to have that responsibility for tonight.
“There’s a party after the concert too that we can go to, if you guys feel up to it,” Emerson adds, after we iron out all the details. “It’ll be the bands and their close friends or family, so it’s nothing too big.”
“Works for us,” Rumi says, bouncing on her toes. She looks at Jack, who offers her a soft smile, leaning down to press a kiss on top of her head.
It makes my heart squeeze, the ease woven in the way they show their affection with each other.
“What about you guys?” Emerson asks, her eyes bouncing between Anderson and me. She raises a brow, almost in a challenge.
She’s been doing it a lot these last two days, ever since the plane ride when she asked if I was sure about marrying Anderson.
Without thinking too much about it, I grab Anderson’s hand, pulling him to me. I bring my face just inches from him, offering him a smile as I say, “What do you say, babe? A little party before we tie the knot?”
If he’s taken aback by my sudden public display of affection, he doesn’t show it. “You know I’ll follow you wherever you go, love.” He smiles big, and my stomach flips.
I can’t tear my eyes away, not when he looks at me like this—like I just gave him the world on a silver platter.
Emerson clears her throat, and it gives me the push I need to look away from Anderson. This time when she looks at me, there’s a smirk on her face.
But I can’t tell if it’s because she bought it.
Or, if it’s because she can see right through me.