Chapter 9 My Wedding Dress
My Wedding Dress
— T WO W EEKS A FTER B ARBARA’S W EDDING —
The door of the apartment closes behind me, and with a sigh I drop the keys on the entryway table, then slip out of my rain boots. Since Frank moved out, we haven’t had a single conversation. I’ve been telling myself it’s because of the move, but maybe he’s already started his… break from me, even though I haven’t agreed to it yet. I’ve done no wedding planning, either, while Martha continues to pick at the carcass of my dream, stealing all my favorite details. This week she took rice paper save-the-date cards and monogrammed cookies.
I take out my phone to send him a text as I collapse on the couch, but I find one from Martha, the bubble taking up most of my screen. I haven’t told her or Barb about my potential engagement, and if he wants to stay alive, Frank didn’t either. Cringing with fear anyway, my eyes scroll through the lines as I prop myself up.
Martha:
Hey, babe. Please don’t kill me, but I went to the bridal shop with Trev’s mom today and saw this dress that the designer was working on. We completely fell in love, but it turns out it’s the one she’s working on for you! Do you think since Frank hasn’t even proposed yet, I could buy it from you? Pleeeeeease? Love you love you love you.
I scoff, the text filling me with such anger, I don’t even know where to start. Tossing the phone on the couch, I get up and pace on the rug, my stomach twisting again and again at every step.
No. There’s no way in hell I’ll give her my dress. It’s the one thing I started planning even before Frank’s “proposal,” and it’s mine. I don’t care how many fits she throws, how upset everyone gets. My dress is mine—end of story.
God, I can’t believe she’d do this.
Why! Why in the world would she want my wedding dress? My ankle-length, classic, white wedding dress? What about the short, crazy, red wedding dress she once loved? For Christ’s sake, she lectured me for two whole hours about veils once.
And she’s my best friend! My sister, basically. I’ve known her my whole life—have been there for her through thick and thin.
With quick movements, I grab the phone and tap on the most recent contact, my heart thrumming so hard and fast, I might just have a heart attack. I hear the ringing, my fingers squeezing tighter and tighter around my phone, increasingly convinced she won’t answer, until eventually I hear a male voice say, “Hello?”
Unbelievable. She’s making Trevor pick up the phone for her? And he’s playing along? “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Whoa.”
I try not to let my voice reach a fever pitch. “Whoa? That’s what you have to say?”
“Okay, look,” the voice says, unusually deep for Trev. “You kept reading my texts, so I figured you might be having a laugh. I shouldn’t have persisted. You didn’t answer, and I didn’t mean to force your hand. I’m sorry.”
Eyes wide, I stare at the phone, the name “Ian” on a black background. “Shit,” I mouth as I grit my teeth. I bring a hand to my lips, mentally cursing myself for just blindly tapping on the last contact. Ian must have sent me his daily text during my freak-out, and now it’s one a.m. on a Sunday and I’m screaming at a stranger.
My finger hovers over the red button, then I stop. It’d be mighty shitty to ignore him for two weeks, then call him in the middle of the night to scream at him and hang up in his face.
Preparing for an awkward conversation, I bring the phone back to my ear.
“Amelie? Are you there? I’m truly sorry.”
“Yeah—hey. Hmm… no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you.”
“Oh. So you weren’t—oh. Who’s ‘fucking kidding’ you, then?”
With my eyes darting left and right, I hesitate, then say, “Sorry again to bother you this late. I’ll—um, bye.”
“Is it Martha?”
I press my lips tightly.
“Frank?” he offers. “Come on. It’s either this or a documentary about penguins. Entertain me. What’s wrong with your life?”
This time I chuckle. “That was lame the first time you said it.”
“My lines, just like wine, get better with time.”
“I guess they need more time, then.”
His laughter makes me smile wide, and my shoulders begin to relax after the burst of tension from a few minutes ago. “So… Frank? Martha?”
“God. You’re relentless, you know that?”
“I do know,” he says proudly. “Out with it. Come on. Who were you planning to scream at at one in the morning?”
“I’d gladly scream at the two of them, actually,” I say, frowning. It’s crappy to be mad at both your best friend and your fiancé. I’d normally go to one to bitch about the other. And with Barb busy with the last arrangements before her honeymoon, the possibility of talking to someone who’s already proved to be a good listener doesn’t sound too bad. “Martha has another unreasonable claim, and Frank, he… well, he proposed, actually.”
“He did?” he asks, his voice laced with surprise. “Congratulations, then. Or not, since you’re angry at him.”
Angry at him. I could almost laugh. Anger is what I felt before, but now? Now it’s mostly resignation, disappointment, loneliness, doubt. I question myself, him, our relationship. And then try to push it all down until it turns into a stomachache. “Yeah, no. It’s great.”
“Sounds like it.”
I brush my fingers over the frame of a picture of Frank and me at our high school graduation. “He just… he suggested that we change a few things before the wedding.”
There’s a sigh, then he observes, “What a vague, nondescript dilemma you got there, Amelie.”
“He… he shifted the paradigm of our relationship.”
Annoyingly amused, his warm voice whispers, “Vague and nondescript.”
“Well, anyway,” I say, more than ready to change the topic. “I was planning to scream at Martha right now.”
“Right. What else does she want?”
With a long exhale, I sit back down on the couch, dragging a blanket over my lap. “My custom-made dress.”
“You don’t mean your… wedding dress, do you?” Ian is silent for a moment, then he clears his throat and asks, “Doesn’t ‘custom-made’ literally mean it’s made for you?”
“We wear similar sizes. She could get it altered.” I lean back against the cushion. “But I love this dress. It’s a mix of all my favorite details from my favorite dresses of all time. Intricate floral lace appliqués, four thousand beads and sequins, illusion plunge corset, and a soft skirt with a double slit.”
“Wow.”
“I commissioned it months ago, long before the engagement, when I walked by the shop and saw that they’d hired a designer and were taking custom orders. I’ve dreamed of it since then, and I’m not giving it up. I don’t care how many fights it causes.”
“Good for you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing full well that I say this now, but Martha won’t make it easy not to crush under her pressure.
“Amelie, it’s your dress. Four thousand… threads, was it? Anyway, it’s yours. No matter how much of a bully this Martha is.”
I take my head in my hand and close my eyes. God, what a positive impression my little group and I must be leaving on this person. “She’s not a bully,” I breathe out. “She’s… she’s like a sister to me.”
“Well, some families are toxic, Amelie, and your sister sounds like a bit of a bitch.”
My lips pinch. Of course he’d think that: it’s the only thing he’s seen of her through my eyes. What saddens me is that sometimes I think that too. “There’s more to her than that,” I say, more to myself than to Ian.
“Really? Like what?”
“Like… like she’s strong. And she cares about things—she’s always fighting other people’s battles.” My mind fills with memories of the marches and protests she dragged me to when we were growing up, and a smile pulls up one corner of my mouth. “And she’s affectionate. All hugs and kisses and gifts. You know the big mall in the city center in Mayfield?” When he says he does, I smile. “Every time she happens to go there, she grabs me a box of candy from this shop I really like. Just because.”
“What else?”
Settling with my elbow on the armrest, I inhale deeply. “She’s quick to forgive. We’ve never had a fight last more than a couple of hours. And she’s smart, passionate, fun.”
“Damn,” he says. “Now I kind of wish she was single.”
With a chuckle, I insist, “I just didn’t expect she’d ask so much of me. But she deserves this and more. I owe Martha a lot.”
“I don’t know, Amelie,” he says. In the background, there’s the squeak of a mattress, and I picture him getting out of bed. “Unless she gave you her kidney, asking for your wedding dress is bold.”
“Ian, I should let you go to sleep.”
There’s a click, then the sound of a door opening. “No. What you should do is tell me what exactly you owe this person that would justify not having smacked her in the face. And I’ll get some chocolate milk.”
Chocolate milk ? I set the thought aside and insist that we hang up. “It’s late. Really, I should—”
He yawns dramatically.
Rolling my eyes at the way I just catapulted into this man’s night with my drama, I say, “Okay, fine.” I pull my knees to my chest under the checkered blanket. “So… my mom lives abroad. When she left, and for a long time after, we weren’t on good terms.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She divorced my dad when I was nine years old, and by the time I was ten, she’d left the country without any plans of coming back. My dad isn’t an easy person to be around, and they brought out the worst in each other. But he also wasn’t willing to let her take me away, so…”
“She left you behind.”
“Yes,” I confirm. “I grew up with my dad and talked to my mom on the phone regularly. Then for a long time I didn’t talk to her at all. Now we’re in a good place. A better place.”
He’s silent for a moment before remarking, “Damn. That’s not easy to forgive.”
“I didn’t forgive her,” I say. “We found a good balance, because after twenty years of her absence, I realized I don’t need her now. But for the longest time I did need her, and she wasn’t there. You know who was there, though?”
He groans, and his next words make me suppress a grin. “Damn Martha.”
“Mm-hmm. I was not fun to be around for a long, long time, and Martha always stuck by my side. She never let me feel bad for myself, always pushed me out of my comfort zone. Her family welcomed me into their home and…” I pause when I feel my emotions crawl up my throat. “Really, I have her to thank for the happiest memories of the first fifteen years of my life.”
“Wow. That’s more than a kidney.”
“It is.”
“It still doesn’t justify her snatching your wedding dress.”
“It doesn’t, but—”
“If I may, Amelie,” he interrupts, “I suggest you adopt the same merciless approach with Martha as you have with my texts. Set a boundary.”
I fidget with the hem of my shirt and let out a strangled laugh. “Sorry I ignored you. I’m engaged: I can’t exactly text single strangers who—”
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, Amelie. You’re quick to make assumptions, aren’t you?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
He snorts. “Hell no. But you’re assuming I’m interested in you, and that’s not the case.”
Yeah. Except that at Barb’s wedding two weeks ago, he was, and no man ever continuously texts a woman for friendship.
“I might have approached you with the intention of hooking up, but that’s it. I’m not here to steal you from your fiancé and make you my wife or something.” He snickers. “Some of us are actually happy in our single lives.”
“All right. Then why do you keep texting me?”
“I don’t know. You seem fun. And I keep coming up with reasons why weddings are the worst.” He clears his voice. “But I’ll stop if you want me to. I won’t even get offended or anything. I get it.”
Ugh. He’s cute. I hate that he’s cute, because despite what Frank is doing or will do, I have no intention of carrying on as if I’m single. But he seems sincere. And his texts are something I’ve started to look forward to. “I am curious to see how many of those unpopular opinions you can think of.”
“Endless. What’s with the rice throwing? And the public proposals—God, they’re tacky. Worst one yet? Apparently, engaged women aren’t allowed to make new friends. It’s madness.”
Fine. He’s cute and charming, I guess. There’s something endearing about him—something I can’t really explain but speaks to me. “I guess us engaged women can make friends. As long as those friends realize that if they have an ulterior motive, they’re wasting their time and ours.”
“I’m sure those friends are happily single and well-intentioned.”
Tucking some hair behind my ear, I smile. “Cool. Then… don’t keep me waiting too long, Ian.”
My phone is still in my hands, Ian’s voice not yet out of my mind after my accidental phone call, when another text notification comes through. Thinking it could be Frank, I check the screen, and my face involuntarily splits into a wide smile.
Ian:
You know what I need?
He really didn’t let me wait too long. Or at all. I burrow deeper into the cushions, my knees falling to one side, and type.
Amelie:
I’m afraid to ask.
Ian:
Photo proof.
I frown down at the phone. What does he mean?
Ian:
I need to see the dress.
There’s a pinch of excitement in my stomach at the idea of showing Ian—or anyone, really—my dress. But he’ll tell me it’s the most beautiful dress in the world and looks made for me, because it is. I’m honestly not in the mood to hear any of it.
Ian:
You know I can be relentless, Amelie…
“Fine, fine.” I open the cloud and tap on the wedding folder, subcategory “dress.” I have measurements, pictures, price. Every-thing’s on here. With a nostalgic smile, I open the picture and send it.
Amelie:
Here. Let your eyes feast, but don’t you dare tell me it’s beautiful or I’ll kick you. I’m NOT in the mood.
I wait for the three dots to appear, but it takes forever, so I open the picture.
This whole thing is so stupid.
Ian’s right. A wedding is just a party, a wedding dress only a pretty, expensive white thing. I don’t know why I care about it so much, why I always have. It was my favorite game when we were kids. Martha and I would set all our plush toys along her parents’ corridor and wear fluffy white towels, with veils made of toilet paper and bouquets of dried flowers her mom had by the entrance. We’d walk down the aisle and get married to each other. Then we’d start again.
But I’m not a kid anymore, so it shouldn’t matter. I should hate the idea of all those people watching me pronounce private words to my fiancé, asking us to kiss or give speeches. Of turning such intimate moments and feelings into a spectacle for others to enjoy.
I should recognize that, though beautiful, this is nothing but a dress. A long-sleeved wedding dress with a crystal-beaded waistband and jeweled buttons down the illusion neckline. Nothing more than a gorgeous dress.
For some reason, this is so much more than a dress.
Ian:
Meh.
“ Meh ?” I straighten, a river of hot rage flowing through me. “What does he mean, meh ?”
Amelie:
Have you no taste, sir?
Ian:
It’s all right.
Amelie:
All right?! Did you see the waistband? The appliqués?
Ian:
The what?
Amelie:
The white flower- and vine-looking things on the gown.
Ian:
They’re fine.
“Oh!” I swing my legs over the side of the couch and squint at the screen. It’s not like I care what Ian thinks about the dress. Still, it’s a matter of principle. He can’t “Meh” the perfect dress.
Amelie:
You must be looking at some other unimpressive, ugly dress.
I send him a picture of me in the dress. Because, yes, I’ve got plenty. Of course I do. I might have shown up at the shop in my pajamas the day the dress was ready for the first fitting.
Amelie:
Look at this. I look divine. No, I look almighty. I look like that dress was draped around my body and I was coated in perfection. No, I look like an enchanting, angelic goddess.
Ian:
Gee. Low self-esteem much?
Amelie:
Am I wrong?
I stare at the phone, waiting. Sure, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but he can’t deny that the dress looks amazing on me. The designer wept when she saw me in it. She asked to take pictures of me to hang on the shopwindow, for crying out loud. They’re still there.
Ian:
Do you really want my opinion?
Amelie:
Yes.
After all, I’ll love it either way.
Ian:
Are you sure? Because I remember some sort of threat being thrown my way.
Oh. So maybe he does like it, and he’s lying because I told him he couldn’t say it’s beautiful. Now I want to know.
Amelie:
Just tell me.
Ian:
All right. Honest opinion.
If you’re not wearing that dress, you shouldn’t bother getting married. Forget about how good it looks on you. How divine, enchanting, or perfect you look in it, though you do.
That smile, right there, is the reason you should wear it.
The way your eyes sparkle is the only excuse you need.
That, Amelie, is your wedding dress.