13. Anika
ANIKA
“This is what desperation feels like,” I mutter, holding up my mother’s gauzy floor-length number she probably wore to a Stevie Nicks concert.
“What was that?” Ivy says through the phone while I balance it precariously between my shoulder and ear.
“Nothing,” I sigh, rummaging deeper into my mother’s closet.
“Well, as I was saying,” Ivy continues, her voice tinged with that special brand of pregnant-woman determination, “Thomas is finally settled in Bern, and we need to set a date before this baby evicts me from my own body.”
My fingers brush against something silky and white. My mother’s wedding dress, complete with ginormous puffy shoulders. On the bright side, they could double as flotation devices in case of emergency.
I push it aside and come upon a silver sequined monstrosity that probably hasn’t seen daylight since ABBA was topping the charts. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Anika, are you even listening?” James chimes in, his British accent making everything sound both polite and accusatory at once. “Ivy’s about to pop any day now. If you don’t meet Thomas before the baby comes…”
“Yes! Dinner. Thomas. Date. I’m listening.” I toss the sequined dress onto the growing pile of rejects.
Griffin invited me to some swanky black-tie investor thing, and I have approximately nothing to wear. Where does one even find a black-tie worthy dress in Gr?chen? It’s not exactly Milan.
“You’re backing out, aren’t you?” Ivy’s voice turns suspicious. “I can hear it in your voice.”
I feel around and find something furry in the corner of the closet. “I’m not backing out,” I lie, pulling the garment forward and frowning at an orange coat that might have been made out of a shag carpet. “I’m just…reassessing my availability.”
“Well, un-reassess it.” Her voice turns stern in that way only pregnant women can master. “Either you come to Bern to meet Thomas, or I will personally waddle down to Gr?chen and drag you to this dinner if I have to.”
I sigh, dropping the shag carpet coat. “Wouldn’t that be inconvenient with your enormous belly?”
I dig deeper into the abyss of bohemian fashion disasters that my mother calls a wardrobe, deluding myself that it might suddenly sprout a designer gown if I glare at it hard enough. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
“So next Wednesday at seven,” Ivy declares. “James is texting Thomas now.”
“Mmm,” I mumble noncommittally, pulling out a floor-length purple thing with embroidered moons and stars.
It screams hippie chic. How am I supposed to attend a black-tie investor party while dressed like I read tea leaves for a living?
Gold coins fringe the sleeves that clank when it slips on the hanger.
“Anika? What’s that jingling sound?” Ivy asks.
“Just cleaning my closet,” I lie, shoving the purple nightmare back where it came from.
I don’t feel like explaining why I’m going through the closet. Telling Ivy about Griffin feels dangerous somehow, like naming a wish out loud might prevent it from coming true. If I don’t tell anyone about these practice dates, then I won’t have to explain when they end.
And they will end. That’s the whole point.
No. I’m definitely not telling Ivy about Griffin. Or the party. Or the strange flutter in my chest whenever he smiles at me.
I hold a brown dress against me in front of the mirror that might actually work if I make a few minor (okay, major) alterations.
“Thomas is really excited to meet you. And James can make his famous lasagna.”
“Actually…”
“No, No. I don’t want to hear it,” Ivy continues. “Once this baby arrives, James and I won’t be available for another decade, minimum. So unless you want your first date with Thomas to be just the two of you with no buffer…”
“Next Wednesday might not work for me. The bar has been busy lately.”
“Why are you suddenly hesitant?” Ivy presses. “Last time we spoke you seemed almost excited.”
Because last time we spoke I wasn’t spending every other day with a six-foot-something Canadian goalie who makes me forget everything else in my life.
“I know, I know. It’s just…complicated right now.”
What’s complicated is that every time Griffin smiles at me, my stomach does this weird flippy thing that I’m pretty sure isn’t indigestion. What’s complicated is that I’m supposed to be learning how to date one man while I’m falling for another.
“Nothing is complicated about dinner,” Ivy insists. “You show up, you eat food, you talk to Thomas. If you hate him, you never have to see him again.”
My thoughts drift to Griffin, to his dimpled smile and ridiculous inspirational quotes. To the way his hand felt around mine at the restaurant. To the fact that none of these practice dates are preparing me for Thomas. They’re making me wish Thomas didn’t exist.
I toss the dress aside and slump onto the bed beside the mountain of fashion crimes. Who am I kidding? This thing with Griffin will soon be a memory. A very pleasant memory, yes. But what makes me think anything will ever happen with a man who’s only teaching me how to date other men?
I stare at the ceiling wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
“Anika? Are you still there?”
“ Ja ,” I grumble.
“Oof, need to pee again,” Ivy groans through the phone. “This baby is using my bladder as a trampoline.”
“TMI, Ivy,” I say.
“Don’t think this conversation is over,” she warns. “I will keep calling until we set a date for Thomas. Pregnancy has given me superhuman persistence and zero shame.”
“Fine, fine,” I mutter, knowing full well I have no intention of agreeing to anything.
“Gotta go before I wet myself! Love you, bye!”
The line goes dead before I can protest further. I toss my phone onto the rejected dress pile.
“Who was that, Sch?tzli ?”
I bolt upright to find my mother leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smile playing on her lips. Her silver-blonde hair is twisted into a messy bun with what appears to be a paintbrush stuck through it. There’s a smudge of yellow paint on her cheek that matches her flowing tunic.
“Just Ivy,” I mutter, hastily shoving dresses back into the closet. “Pregnancy has made her extra bossy.”
“And why are you destroying my closet?” She gestures to the fabric explosion with amusement. “Planning a fashion show?”
“I need a dress for…an event.”
“With that handsome hockey player?” Her eyes light up like Christmas came early. “The one who brought flowers?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Of course it is!” She claps her hands together. “Finally! My daughter is going on a date!”
I don’t correct her. Explaining that Griffin is just my dating coach would require admitting I’ve never been on a real date at twenty-five, which feels more pathetic than letting her believe this lie.
“It’s a black-tie thing,” I mumble. “Nothing in your closet works unless I’m attending as the entertainment.”
“So don’t go.” She shrugs, picking up a paisley kimono and holding it lovingly. “Stay home. Work at the pub. Die alone surrounded by beer taps and drunk locals.”
“ Mutter !”
“What? I’m just saying what will happen if you keep finding excuses.” She tosses the dress aside. “I’ll cover the pub. You’ve hardly taken a night off in three years.”
Except for the Visp game, she’s right.
I chew my lip. “I don’t know…”
“If you don’t go out with that delicious hockey player,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “I will rearrange your vinyl collection by color instead of alphabetically.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” She crosses her arms, smiling sweetly. “And I’ll switch all your Smiths records with my Yanni collection.”
Now that’s just evil.
She dances around the room humming a Yanni song.
“I don’t have anything to wear anyway,” I say with resignation. “So there’s no use talking about it.”
She twirls mid-dance to face me. “Maybe we can ask around the village? See if anyone has something you could borrow?”
I nearly choke. “Absolutely not. I’d rather wear this…thing.”
“What about Frau Heller?” she suggests, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “She has that fancy dress she wore to her grandson’s wedding.”
“ Mutter !” My face burns. “I am not going door-to-door begging for dresses!”
The mental image alone makes me want to crawl under my bed and hibernate until spring. The village gossip mill would churn out engagement rumors before I even made it home with a borrowed gown.
My mother waves dismissively. “Pride won’t keep you warm at night, Sch?tzli .”
I’m contemplating whether I could fashion something presentable from the pub’s curtains—they’re burgundy velvet, very Maria von Trapp—when the doorbell’s cheerful ring interrupts my fashion crisis.
My mother practically skips to answer it, leaving me alone with the pile of colorful thrift store rejects.
I hold the brown dress against me one more time, wondering if I could somehow transform it into something that doesn’t scream “I make my own granola.”
“Maybe if I cut off the sleeves and hem it above the knee…” I mutter, turning sideways. “And add a belt? And completely change the fabric, color, and design?”
“Anika!” My mother’s voice sings from the hallway. “There’s something for you!”
She reappears in the doorway, cradling an enormous white box tied with a black satin ribbon. “The delivery man just left this. It’s addressed to you.”
“For me?” I take the surprisingly heavy box and place it on the bed. “There must be some mistake.”
“It has your name on it.” She points to the elegant card tucked under the ribbon.
I carefully untie the bow and lift the lid.
Nestled in layers of tissue paper is the most exquisite dress I’ve ever seen.
It’s a deep midnight blue, with a subtle shimmer that catches the light as I lift it from the box.
It unfolds into a floor-length gown with a tasteful slit up one side and delicate beading across the bodice.
“Oh my…” My mother’s hands fly to her cheeks. “It’s stunning!”
I’m speechless, running my fingers over the silky fabric. The cut is classic, elegant.
“There’s more!” My mother reaches into the box and pulls out a smaller package. Inside are strappy, black heels that look suspiciously like my size.
“How did he…” I whisper, slipping off my sock to compare my foot to the shoe. Perfect fit.
“Wait, there’s another box!” Mother squeals as she pulls out a small velvet case.
This one contains a delicate silver necklace with matching teardrop earrings. Simple, nothing flashy or ostentatious. Just…lovely.
“Well, well,” my mother says, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “I wonder who could have sent such a thoughtful gift? Perhaps a certain hockey player?”
I feel heat creeping up my neck. “The card doesn’t say it’s from Griffin.”
“It doesn’t have to, Sch?tzli .” She taps the side of her nose. “A mother knows these things.”