Chapter 10
Patrice
The drive to Anchorage takes two hours, which is approximately one hour and fifty-nine minutes longer than my bladder can currently handle.
"We need to stop," I announce for the third time in forty minutes.
Tessa glances at me from the driver's seat, grinning. "Again? We just stopped twenty minutes ago."
"You don’t have a baby using your bladder as a trampoline. I do. Different rules apply."
She laughs and takes the next exit. "Fair point. But at this rate, we're going to hit every rest stop between here and Anchorage."
"Consider it a guided tour of Alaska's finest public restrooms," I say. "Very educational."
By the time we actually arrive in Anchorage, I've peed four times, eaten an entire bag of pretzels I didn't remember buying, and listened to Tessa's playlist of what she calls "empowering breakup anthems" even though she's getting married this week.
"Why are we listening to songs about terrible men when you're marrying a good one?" I ask as we pull into the parking lot of the bridal shop.
"Because they're catchy," she says. "And also because I like to remember what I escaped. Kyle was a nightmare wrapped in expensive cologne."
"True. Though I feel like Gage is the opposite of a nightmare."
"He's a dream in flannel," she agrees, turning off the engine. "Which sounds cheesy, but it's true."
I haul myself out of the car with all the grace of a beached whale attempting parkour. Everything hurts. My back, my feet, my dignity. The baby kicks, and I press a hand to my stomach.
"Settle down in there," I mutter. "We're on a mission."
Tessa comes around to my side and links her arm through mine. "Ready to find you a dress that makes you feel gorgeous?"
"I'd settle for finding a dress that doesn't make me look like I swallowed a planet."
"You don't look like you swallowed a planet."
"Tessa. I'm enormous."
"You're pregnant," she corrects. "There's a difference."
"Is there though?"
She just laughs and pulls me toward the shop.
The bridal boutique is one of those places that smells like expensive fabric and broken dreams. Everything is white or ivory or champagne or some other shade that basically means white but costs more. There are mirrors everywhere, which feels like a personal attack.
A saleswoman materializes the second we walk in. She's tall, impossibly thin, and wearing a smile so bright it could guide ships to shore.
"Welcome! Are we shopping for a wedding dress today?"
"She isn’t," I say, pointing at Tessa. "I'm shopping for something that will allow me to attend a wedding without looking like I robbed a tent factory."
The saleswoman's smile doesn't falter. "Maternity formal wear! How exciting! When are you due?"
"February."
"Oh, so you're—" She does quick math in her head. "Seven months?"
"Almost eight, actually. The wedding's this week."
"Well, you're glowing!"
I lean closer to Tessa. "That's sweat. I'm always sweating now. It's one of pregnancy's many delightful gifts."
Tessa snorts, and the saleswoman pretends not to hear.
"Let me show you our maternity section," the saleswoman says, leading us toward the back of the store. "We have some beautiful options for formal occasions."
The maternity section is exactly three racks. Three. Meanwhile, the regular wedding dresses take up the entire front half of the store like a fluffy white army.
"This is it?" I ask.
"We have a carefully curated selection," the saleswoman says, which I'm pretty sure is retail speak for we didn't order much because pregnant women are an afterthought.
Tessa immediately starts pulling dresses. "Okay, what about this one? It's got an empire waist."
I hold it up. It's navy blue with long sleeves and looks like something a Victorian governess would wear to a funeral.
"Next."
"This one?" She holds up a burgundy dress with a plunging neckline.
"Tessa. My boobs are already trying to escape. That neckline would give them a formal invitation."
"Valid point." She puts it back and pulls out another one. "Ooh, this one's pretty. Forest green, flowy, very elegant."
I take it from her and head to the dressing room, which is less a room and more a glorified closet with a curtain that doesn't quite close all the way. Getting the dress on turns out to be an Olympic event. I'm sweating by the time I manage to zip it up, and when I look in the mirror, I—
Oh no.
The dress is pretty. The dress is elegant. The dress also makes me look like a very festive Christmas tree.
I pull back the curtain and step out.
Tessa's eyes go wide. "Oh."
"Say it."
"Say what?"
"That I look like I should be in someone's living room with tinsel wrapped around me and a star planted on my head."
She presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. "You don't look like a Christmas tree."
"Tessa."
"Okay, maybe a little bit. But a very pretty Christmas tree!"
The saleswoman appears, hands clasped together. "Oh, that color is lovely on you!"
"It's very green," I say flatly.
"Green is in this season!"
"So is red, but I'm not going to dress like a fire truck."
Tessa loses it, laughing so hard she has to sit down on one of the fancy white chairs.
I retreat back to the dressing room and try on the next dress. This one is black with a sweetheart neckline and a skirt that's supposed to be flowy but instead clings to my stomach in a way that makes me look like I'm smuggling a basketball.
"No," I say, stepping out.
"Agreed," Tessa says immediately. "Next."
The third dress I try on is champagne-colored with lace sleeves and a high neck. It's actually kind of pretty, but when I try to zip it up, it won't close.
"Need help?" the saleswoman calls.
"No, I've got it," I lie, yanking on the zipper.
The fabric strains. The zipper makes an ominous sound.
"Patrice, don't force it," Tessa warns.
Too late. The zipper gives up entirely and slides back down with a defeated wheeze.
I give up and try the next dress, which is dark purple and actually manages to zip. I step out of the dressing room with cautious optimism.
Tessa tilts her head. "It's..."
"It's what?"
"Very purple."
"I'm noticing a theme with your feedback."
"I'm just saying, you're going to stand out."
"I'm seven months pregnant at a wedding. I'm going to stand out no matter what I wear."
The saleswoman appears again, still smiling. "That color really brings out your eyes!"
"My eyes are brown."
"Exactly!"
I'm starting to think this woman is programmed to only say positive things, like a very expensive robot.
I try on four more dresses. One makes me look like a bridesmaid from a budget wedding in the eighties.
Another has a bow on the back that's so large it could double as a parachute.
The third is so tight around my chest I can barely breathe, and the fourth has sleeves that make me look like I'm about to perform a magic trick.
"I'm going to die here," I announce, collapsing onto the chair next to Tessa. "They're going to find my body in this dressing room, and the headline will be 'Woman Defeated by Formal Wear.'"
"We'll find something," Tessa promises. "There's got to be one dress in this entire store that works."
"I'm shaped like a planet, Tessa. Planets don't fit into dresses."
"You're not shaped like a planet."
"I'm round. Planets are round. The math checks out."
She stands up and walks over to a rack I haven't looked at yet. It's in the corner, kind of hidden behind a display of veils. She pulls out a dress and holds it up.
"What about this one?"
It's a deep emerald green—not Christmas tree green, but darker, richer. The neckline is modest, the sleeves are three-quarter length, and the empire waist sits just under the bust before flowing out in soft, forgiving fabric.
"It's pretty," I admit.
"Try it on."
I haul myself up and take the dress. Back in the torture chamber—sorry, dressing room—I manage to get it on without any wardrobe malfunctions. The fabric is soft, the fit is comfortable, and when I look in the mirror—
Oh.
I actually look... good?
Not despite being pregnant, but just... good. The dress works with my body instead of against it. The color makes my skin look less like a zombie's and more like an actual living person's. I don't look like a planet or a Christmas tree or a tent.
I look like myself. Just a pregnant version.
I step out of the dressing room, and Tessa's face lights up.
"That's it," she says. "That's the dress."
"Really?"
"Really. You look beautiful."
The saleswoman appears—I'm starting to think she has some kind of radar—and clasps her hands together. "Oh, that's perfect! The color, the fit, everything!"
"I'll take it," I say before I can second-guess myself.
Twenty minutes later, Tessa has her final dress fitting and I'm walking out of the store with a garment bag slung over my shoulder and a significantly lighter bank account.
"Lunch?" Tessa suggests. "There's a cute café two blocks from here."
"Does it have food?"
"Obviously."
"Then yes. Please. I'm starving."
"You just ate an entire bag of pretzels in the car."
"That was hours ago. I'm eating for two now. Actually, I'm eating for one and a half because the baby is using up valuable stomach real estate in here, but the point stands."
The café is indeed cute—exposed brick walls, string lights, mismatched furniture that somehow all works together. We grab a table by the window, and I immediately order a sandwich the size of my head and a chocolate croissant because why not.
Tessa orders a salad, which feels like a personal betrayal.
"I’m getting married this week," she says when she catches my look. "I can't show up looking bloated."
"You're going to look gorgeous no matter what."
"Thanks, but I'm still getting the salad."
The food arrives, and I take a bite of my sandwich. It's perfect—warm bread, melty cheese, actual vegetables that taste like vegetables instead of sad cardboard. I close my eyes and make a completely inappropriate noise.
"Should I leave you two alone?" Tessa asks, grinning.