Chapter 18
AS I ENTER THE shop, bells chiming over my head, I’m nearly knocked over by a powerful jumble of memories. It’s been so long, and yet it feels like nothing’s changed.
The shop is just as I remember it. Sequins and beading glint off the rows of dresses that ring the perimeter of the store while a large glass counter loops around the center of the store. There is a bridal section that had seemed enormous when I was a teenager but now looks strikingly quaint.
“Oh my lord, if it isn’t Miss Nikki Bennet.”
I turn to see a middle-aged man with perfectly coiffed hair and square-rimmed glasses.
“Beau! Oh my gosh, how are you?”
I rush over and give him a hug—a real one with a tight squeeze, not the limp, half-armed thing I gave Mary Moore when I ran into her.
“I’ve been getting by,” Beau says. “You know LuAnne, she’ll never officially retire, but just between us girls, I’ve been basically running the place for the past four years.”
“Good for you!” Beau was always my favorite part of coming to the dress shop. While Mom would scrutinize every gown I tried on with cold-eyed objectivity—that cut doesn’t flatter your figure; that color makes your hair look brassy—Beau told me I looked fabulous in everything.
“There you are!” Mom says, coming over to the two of us. “We’re all grabbing a dress for Cara to try on!” My mom looks like Christmas has come early, or like Mary Moore’s mother has come in second place at the county fair jam competition—to her.
I guess you can say I come by my competitive streak earnestly.
“Go on ahead,” Beau says. “I’m going to find a good playlist for y’all.”
I peruse the racks in the bridal section, picking a relic from the ’80s with a short, fitted skirt and giant poufy sleeves. I flick past a sleek gown with dainty little straps that’s totally Cara’s style and instead select a “Little Bo-Peep”–inspired ruffle explosion.
We all pile our dresses into the arms of the sales associate, and Cara disappears into a dressing room.
I join my mother and sister near the dressing rooms. Linney passes around glasses she’d buried in her tote bag and produces a bottle of champagne.
She uncorks it with a pop, and the wine fizzes as she pours us each a glass.
Mom, not normally a big drinker, says, “Oh, why not?” and accepts a flute from Linney with a smile.
She takes a sip, then leans over and squeezes my hand. “Remember how much fun we used to have here?”
Beside the dressing room, the small seating area is curled around a low pedestal. I remember all of it: standing on that same pedestal facing a ring of mirrors. Every angle of my teenage body thrown back to me in stark relief.
I offer Mom a smile, not willing to excavate anything unpleasant.
Some of the memories are great, though, like when Mom teared up when I tried on my senior prom dress and told me I looked just like Meema, my nickname for my maternal grandmother.
Meema died when I was ten, and I always thought she was magical.
And it was fun, getting to be a real-life Barbie doll.
Being fussed over and admired felt good.
Until it didn’t.
But I don’t want to focus on that today. Besides, how could I dwell on the negative when Beau’s selected the ultimate Girls’ Night Out soundtrack—everything from Taylor to Mariah to Sabrina to Whitney to Reba to ABBA.
After a few minutes, Cara comes out in her first gown. She actually does look a little shy—hesitating just outside the curtain of the changing room until Linney hollers at her to give us a twirl.
This first dress is one Linney pulled. It’s vintage lace, with long bell sleeves. It’s cool and kind of funky… but not Cara.
“You look stunning,” Beau says. “I’m loving the lace with your wavy hair. You like a modern Stevie Nicks!”
I grin despite myself. That’s what so great about Beau—his compliments are genuine. He’s not just hyping you up with generic praise; he finds something specific to love about whatever you’re wearing.
“Thanks,” Cara says, a small smile growing on her face. “I think I’m looking for something simpler.”
Beau nods. “Absolutely, darlin’. I love that for you.”
The next dress Cara tries on is my mom’s choice.
There’s a significant amount of rustling behind the dressing room curtain as Cara tries to maneuver herself into the dress.
She steps out of the dressing room in a gown that completely overwhelms her.
She shuffles forward, gathering up two arms’ worth of fabric in order to step on the small platform.
She looks like her ride home might turn back into a pumpkin if she’s not in it by midnight.
“Well, that’s certainly not simple,” Beau says, eyebrows raised above the rims of his glasses. “But you look positively royal!”
“You look so lovely, dear.” Misty-eyed, my mom clutches her glass of champagne to her chest. Linney and I murmur our agreements.
“It’s nice,” Cara says, clearly aiming for enthusiasm but I can tell she hates it and is just nervous about disappointing my mom.
And in that moment, I realize she’s all alone here. No mom, no sister, not even her maid of honor, who is coming the night before the wedding. I imagine how I would feel trying on dresses without Mom and Linney, or the Core Four, and a surge of sympathy rolls through me.
“Um, I think I’ll try on the others too,” Cara says to Mom. “Just to see.”
“Of course,” Mom demurs. “Try Nikki’s next.”
Cara looks over at me. “Which one should I go for?” she asks. “The short one, or the one with ruffles?” She’s smiling, but her eyes are hard.
Oh god, now I feel horrible.
“Wait!” I say, hurrying back over to the bridal section. I grab the simple, sophisticated gown I’d passed over before, and hand it to Cara. “I think you might like this one more.”
She looks down at it, her eyebrows rising, then back at me. I offer her a little shrug in silent apology.
A few moments later, she emerges from the dressing room—looking absolutely stunning.
The cream silk of the gown sets against Cara’s skin beautifully, and her strawberry leaf pendant hanging at her throat complements the dress like they were made for each other. And if I squint, I can’t even see the anchor tattoo on her shoulder.
Cara smiles at herself in the mirror, her hands grazing along the lace at her hips as she turns slowly from side to side, taking in the perfection of the dress from every angle.
“That’s the one,” Mom whispers.
Cara nods, and in the mirror’s reflection, I think I see tears forming in her eyes.
WE PURCHASE THE DRESS and make plans for Cara to come back in a few days for some minor alterations.
Mom, Linney, and Cara decide to head next door to the homewares store to look for tablecloths and napkins—more wedding errands to cross off the list. I tell them to go ahead, offering to stay behind and help Beau put everything away.
Once they disappear around the corner, I wander past racks of gowns, fingering fabrics, my eyes drifting back to a sweet strapless dress I had noticed earlier, with a fine pattern of floral lace making a low V in the front.
I glance at Beau, who’s been going back and forth from the back room to restock some displays, before slipping the dress from the rack.
I hustle into the dressing room, my stomach fluttering, and close the door behind me.
It takes a minute to sort out the sea of creamy white fabric and step into it, but when I finish with the zipper and turn to the mirror, I actually gasp.
The dress fits like it was made for me. The fabric hugs in all the right places, the cut perfectly flattering, the neckline plunging in a way that looks elegant, not overdone.
An unexpected lump forms in my throat. Cooper getting married first is hitting harder than I expected. I had plans for this, a timeline for how things were supposed to go in my life, and now it’s all scrambled. Will I ever get a chance to wear something like this for real?
My chest tightens with that ache of lost expectation, but I shake it off.
It’s time to stop playing dress-up. I reach for the zipper.
It won’t budge. I tug again. Nothing. My heart starts racing.
“Oh no, oh no…” I mutter, hopping from one foot to the other, yanking carefully, then not-so-carefully, willing it to move.
I wiggle, twist, pray. Should I call out to Beau and see if he can hear me from the back room?
“Nikki?” A voice floats down the aisle, but it’s not Beau… it’s Nate.
For a second, I’m frozen with sheer panic. I can’t let him see me in this thing! But then the opposite thought—I need help. I need him.
“In here!” I call back, hopping once more. I open the stall door just enough to poke my head out, and gesture him toward me frantically.
He slips inside the dressing room, and I catch his eyes widening the second he sees what I’m wearing.
“Wow… you look amazing,” he says, and my stomach flips.
“Thanks.” My voice comes out breathy.
“But, uh…” He seems at a loss for words for a moment, then swallows. “I’m not sure anyone’s told you this, but you’re kinda not supposed to wear white to someone else’s wedding.”
I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half quiet wail, and swat him on the shoulder. My hand lingers on his chest, can feel his pecs harden beneath his shirt at my touch. “Nate. I do not need to be teased right now. I’m actually… kind of stuck,” I admit, gesturing helplessly at the zipper.
He eyes me up and down, and I can feel his gaze on every inch of me, every spot where the dress wraps itself so close to my body. “I can understand how you got stuck in this thing. But what are you doing in a wedding dress in the first place?”
Now it’s my turn to look away, removing my hand from his chest. My glance falls to the mirror—where I catch his eyes again in the reflection. “I was just…” I shrug. “Curious.”
“Ah.” He nods once, glances away, swallows again. “Curious.”
“So, um… I kind of need… I need you to…”
“To Shawshank you out of this dress?”
I laugh. “Precisely. But hopefully with less damage.”