Chapter 23
LYRIC
Everything is fine and nothing is on fire. Oh, who am I kidding, my flabbers are ghasted. I don’t know what’s going on, but Waylon has been very attentive since he brought me home from the bar last week.
From breakfast the next morning to last night when he suggested we watch a movie on the couch. He put my feet in his lap and rubbed them, for crying out loud. What the hell is that about? I’m not complaining but I am like hey, man, what’s up with that?
I’m not going to make the mistake of asking, though. No way. What if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it? Or how it feels to me. I mean, it might not be the real thing, but whatever it is, it’s nice.
If it were purely physical, I would’ve been over him a long time ago.
I can swoon over a man’s body with the best of them, but I will lose interest if all they are is their looks.
Waylon has always been different to me. Even when we first met and I took his hat and all I had to go on was that short interaction.
Sometimes you don’t need much. The inflection of their voice. The balance of sincerity and playfulness in their eyes. It was every fiber of his being and the way it was blended together into this human sunbeam. And it just so happens to be expertly packaged in a premium skin suit.
I derail this train of thought as I pull into the parking lot of the dress boutique.
Darcy sent me the address last night along with half a dozen screenshots of gowns she wanted to try on.
To make things easier, which is my job as maid of honor, I started an electronic folder and shared it with her.
There are sub-folders for the dress, cake and menus, the venue, and anything else you can think of.
“Hey, Lyric!” Lou’s small voice catches my attention from a few feet away as I put my car into park.
I hop out. “Hey, Lou Lou. Are you ready to find yourself a pretty flower girl dress?”
“Yeah, but Darcy hasn’t told me what color it gets to be yet,” Lau says, rolling her eyes hard as she looks up at Darcy.
“I just have to see the colors in person first,” Darcy says. “What if I pick a color online and then it looks bad in real life?”
Lou tilts her head to the left and pushes her bottom lip out. Darcy shadows her expression back at her and the little girl cracks a smile.
“Fiiiiiine,” Lou says. “Let’s go pick a color so I can get a beautiful princess dress.”
“What about my dress?” Darcy asks, holding her hand out for Lou to grab.
“That’s important, too,” Lou says.
I walk just behind in order to admire them for a moment. They’re very cute together. And although Lou doesn’t call my friend “Mom,” it doesn’t mean she is less of one. Lou even got her a Mother’s Day card for the occasion.
For a little while, my aunt was like a mom to me. I learned that Mom is just the name we give to a bond that runs deeper than almost any other. It’s sacred and unconditional. I’ve known plenty of shitty biological moms who didn’t deserve the title.
No matter what you call her—Mom or aunt or sister, even friend—she’s there for you. And no matter what kind she is—step or adoptive or stand-in—her love is unshakable.
It’s times like this when I miss my own mother. I don’t know how Darcy feels about not having her mother here. I haven’t wanted to ask. But when I think about my own wedding, I know I will miss mine.
Milestones in life hit harder when there are people missing, when they’re not there to witness your achievement. You just have to hope you’re making them proud, wherever they may be.
Inside, we’re greeted by a cheery young girl who can’t be more than a sophomore in college.
She greets Darcy, confirms her appointment details, and lets us know we have a private dressing room reserved in the back and to just tell them which gowns she’d like to try on.
Apparently, they pull them and take them to the room for you. It’s all very fancy.
We’re also given two flutes of champagne and one apple juice. To tell you the truth, I would’ve preferred a juice box over the bubbly stuff too, but I’m here to give Darcy the complete and total experience.
“What about this one?” Lou says, pointing to a really elegant lace dress with modern cutouts on the sides.
“Oh, that is pretty, Lou,” Darcy says. “Do you want me to try that one on?”
Lou nods and Darcy gestures for it to be taken to the back. As her friend, I know it’s not her type, but I think it’s sweet that she wants Lou to feel heard and seen and like she’s a part of this for real.
I point out two of the dresses she sent me photos of and a third that she didn’t send me, but there’s something about it that I think would be perfect. With a couple more picks, Lou and I settle onto a small couch outside of Darcy’s room and wait.
The mirror in front of us runs floor to ceiling, so I snap a pic of us on the couch to send to the group chat. They may not be allowed to see the dress, but they can get a little peek inside the day. Plus, I know Ridge is frothing at the mouth to see Darcy, so we can tease him.
I send the photo and it’s a very short minute before the phone buzzes in my lap.
RIDGE
Did she pick one already? Is it done?
ME
God no, we’re waiting for her to come out.
RIDGE
I’ll pay you $500 to sneak a pic for me.
KILLIAN
I think you can get double that out of him.
ME
And have Darcy murder both of us? I don’t think so.
RIDGE
How about just the bottom half? Or the top? The back?
ME
You will wait until your wedding day like a good boy.
WAYLON
Hey, I thought I was your good boy?
Oh. My. God. I’m going to straight murder him.
BANKS
Whoa. Things just got interesting.
KILLIAN
I don’t have anything else to contribute.
So he wants to play, huh? Okay, I’ll play, cowboy.
ME
You’re only a good boy when your mouth is being useful to me.
KILIIAN
I’m deceased.
BANKS
GO MAKE YOUR MOUTH USEFUL, brO.
RIDGE
That’s just so much more than I wanted to know.
WAYLON
I’ll be a good boy when you get home then.
Fuck. No chance I’m not thinking about that all day.
Thankfully, I have Darcy’s phone with me, so she can’t read what’s happening right now.
She asked me to take pics with her phone so she could show Ridge all the ones she tried on other than the one she chooses.
Which seems like a torturous game. The man is clearly dying to see what he’s not supposed to.
The woman assisting Darcy pulls the curtain open as my best freakin’ friend walks out looking like an angel. Tears immediately prick the corners of my eyes. My throat tightens. She turns to face the mirror and even her mouth drops open.
“Lou, you picked such a good one,” she says.
The little girl sits beside me beaming at her good job. And Darcy isn’t blowing smoke either. The dress hugs her curves in all the right places, and the cutouts actually look amazing.
“How do we feel about it, girls?” the attendant asks.
“It’s a maybe for me,” Lou says. “I know it’s my pick, but I feel like we should see more.”
“You are so right!” the attendant says. She claps her hands together and waves Darcy back into the room.
“I agree we should see more, too,” I tell Lou.
“Hey, Lyric?” Lou says, her voice a little smaller. “Do you think Darcy would let me wear that dress?” She points somewhere behind me, so I twist to find what’s got her attention.
“Oh…” It’s a child’s dress, thankfully. I was worried she was going to be pointing at something impossible. I can’t describe it other than to say if Cinderella’s ball dress was pale yellow instead of icy blue—and made for a child—this would be it.
In my mind, it doesn’t work for a wedding approaching fall. I had assumed Darcy would be putting us in jewel tones for a more romantic vibe, but I don’t know for sure.
“Well, as soon as we find Darcy’s dress, we can look for yours,” I say, tone encouraging. I really don’t want to be the one to crush her little heart.
“Darcy wears pretty yellow dresses a lot,” Lou says, pausing to turn back in her seat. “I just wanted a pretty yellow dress, too.”
I’m not going to say anything right now, but if I know Darcy like I think I do, Lou will be having that dress. Because the moment she hears that’s the reason, it’s a done deal.
We refocus our attention as Darcy steps out into the next dress. And the next. And another. All of them are fine. She saved the random dress I picked for last. And when she walks out in it, the tears that brimmed my eyes earlier begin to fall down my cheeks.
Darcy looks at herself in the mirror, her eyes moving from her feet all the way up until she’s looking herself in the eye. And she’s crying too.
“That’s definitely the one,” Lou whispers next to me.
The gown has a beautiful corset top with off-the-shoulder drapey sleeves, beading, and lace down the front. The A-line style isn’t too poofy and doesn’t hug her tight, simply flowing off her. The entire thing feels so elegant and graceful. Timeless.
After several more minutes of sobbing on my part, we finalize the decision, and the attendant takes Darcy’s measurements so they can make the appropriate alterations.
The next thing we do is visit the pale yellow dress.
Darcy agrees immediately and shrugs her shoulders at me.
Which means “So what if she won’t match.
She’s a kid and she’ll be happy. Who cares about a perfect aesthetic?
” Personally, I think it’s nice we can have conversations without speaking. It saves time.
But I was right, too. Darcy’s plan was to put us in jewel tones. But since Lou has already gone off script, she tells me to pick whatever I want, too.
I rummage through the racks, running my fingers over the soft fabrics, assessing their shapes and feeling unmoved by all of them.
“What about this one?” Lou says from the other side of the stand.
When I come around the corner, I gasp a little. The deep purple color reminds me of this butterfly on my wall at home. And the sleeves drape just like the wedding dress. There’s a slit up the side that cuts through the sea of silky fabric and is going to expose a lot of leg.
When I try it on, I feel the prettiest I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
But all I can think about is Waylon. How he might react when he sees me like this.
If he would think I was as beautiful as I would feel.
My heart races as I envision the two of us walking down the aisle as best man and maid of honor.
And then I remember that he has no interest in walking down the aisle for any other reason. Not for five or ten years, according to various sources. I mean five is, maybe, reasonable. But ten is excessive. I can’t wait that long. I don’t want to wait that long.
I never really believed in the right person, wrong time thing until now. I just always figured if it was the right person, it would be the right time. But life—I’m finding—isn’t at all that straightforward.