Chapter 16 Wrenley
Wrenley
Do you think we got too many antlers? Remi opens the beyond giant bag from the craft store.
Yes, Ruger and I say in unison.
Remi narrows her eyes. You’re both wrong.
We continue through the mall, weaving around families, tourists, teenagers, and shoppers carrying bags from stores I haven’t seen since leaving Vancouver.
While I love the smell of ocean air in Alpine Harbor, there’s something deeply nostalgic about recirculated air that sometimes carries the scent of fries.
The other nice thing about being here is that nobody knows Ruger and I are engaged, which means we don’t have to hold hands or pretend like we’re counting down the days until we’re husband and wife.
After last night, the break is welcome. Unfortunately, distance isn’t helping as much as I hoped.
Every time I try to let myself forget he’s there, I hear the rumble of his voice or catch a glimpse of him, and a wave of desire washes through my core, making me squeeze my thighs a little tighter.
Are we done shopping? Ruger grumbles, trailing behind us.
You said we should come up here, Remi argues.
I just wasn’t expecting I’d have to approve which antler wineglass looked most wedding-friendly. ‘Pure white or cream,’ he says in a terrible imitation of Remi’s voice, and I stifle a laugh.
They were in the one-dollar bin! Remi protests.
Yeah, ’cause they’re ugly.
Remi clicks her tongue. Well, you didn’t have to follow us around the mall, she says. You could’ve gone and looked at camping gear or something.
I did, he argues. For two hours.
Remi waves him off.
What’s next? I ask, adjusting the bags cutting into my fingers. Food?
Remi stops walking. Wedding dresses.
Ruger and I both freeze.
Wedding dresses? he asks flatly.
You know, the white thing your future wife wears when she walks down the aisle?
He shoots her a look. I know what a wedding dress is.
And this, Remi says, dramatically throwing her arms up in front of a store window, is a wedding dress shop. Shall we?
Ruger groans, and I can’t blame him.
I don’t exactly have money for a wedding dress, I say. Remember? I brought something for the big day.
We’re not buying a dress, she says. We’re just getting inspiration. I know a great thrift store not far from here if you decide you want a gown.
I can get inspiration online, I say. I literally have an app that lets me take a picture of a dress and then suggests alterations, fabrics, and helps me build a pattern. Technology is amazing.
Remi’s shoulders drop. If you really don’t want to, we don’t have to.
I’m starting to realize this isn’t about actually finding a wedding dress.
This is about having the wedding experience with her best friend.
She wants to look at dresses and debate colours, maybe even tear up when I walk out of a fitting room wearing the perfect gown.
I can’t say I blame her because the more I think about it, the more I realize this whole fake wedding has become a strange stand-in for something that may not happen for either of us.
Remi chose her career over finding love, and I chose an asshole who was never going to marry me.
Now, we’re well into our thirties, both in a place where marriage isn’t a top priority.
And when will it be? Now we’re being somewhat forced through this experience, and Remi’s seemingly determined to get every ounce of fun out of it.
Fine, I say.
Remi brightens. Really?
Yes. But— I point a finger at her. —I get final say on the dress. Even if it means me wearing the cotton one I brought.
Fair, Remi says, nodding, then claps her hands excitedly. This is going to be great! Come along!
Remi bounces into the shop with her giant bag of antlers like she’s the one getting married.
Ruger and I exchange a glance. He looks about as excited to spend his afternoon dress shopping as I would be to go hunting. I give him a tight smile and follow Remi inside, silently praying this isn’t going to be as much of a disaster as it already feels like.
The shop is a sea of white in lace, satin, silk, and tulle. Out of curiosity, I grab the nearest tag.
Three thousand? I whisper, horror creeping up my spine.
I try to convert it to Canadian dollars. No luck. My brain is good at the rows, angles, and symmetry in sewing math. Finance math? Nope. All I know is the US dollar beats the Canadian dollar, and three thousand means too much.
Remi? I call through the racks.
No answer.
I inch forward, overwhelmed by the layers of fabric. I glance back. Ruger’s still by the door, visibly tense, hands shoved into his pockets. Suddenly, a mass of lace smacks me in the face.
This is gorgeous!
I peel the dress off my head and find Remi grinning behind it.
I can’t even tell what it is, I mumble.
It’s a wedding dress, obviously.
Remi, do we have to be in here? Ruger hisses, finally deciding to join us.
Yes, she says brightly. Come on. Davone is waiting for us.
Davone?
Is this the bride?
A tall, stylish Black man in a perfectly tailored suit appears like magic, a tape measure draped around his neck. His blue glasses are thick and fabulous.
Oh my God! She’s gorgeous. Do a twirl for me, sweetie!
I’m not sure why I do it, but I twirl.
Yes! You are going to be Glamorous with a capital G! Fergie’s song is about you, honey. Come, come! He’s already halfway down the aisle, beckoning us like a fashion-forward pied piper.
Remi squeals and hurries after him. Ruger and I hang back.
I lean close and whisper, Are you okay with this?
Not sure I have a choice, he murmurs.
I glance up at him. You always have a choice.
His gaze lingers. I don’t know if that’s true when it comes to you.
My breath catches, but there’s no time to press him. We’re ushered into a show area with a plush beige couch, pedestal, and full-length mirrors. Dresses in white, ivory, and cream line the walls.
Champagne, anyone? Davone asks, clapping his hands.
You got something stronger? Ruger mutters.
Don’t be stupid. Three glasses of champagne would be lovely, Remi says, grinning.
While I’m gone, think about what kind of bride you are, Davone sings, disappearing through rows of silk.
Ruger groans and collapses onto the couch like he’s just run a marathon.
So, Remi says, fingering the edge of a gown, what’s your look?
Definitely not silk taffeta. I move Remi’s hand off a particularly shiny dress. Taffeta shows everything. You’ve got to have the body of a supermodel or the tailoring of a royal to pull that off.
I think of the Pippa Middleton dress craze. Everyone wanted her look, forgetting her gown was made for her body. While I can appreciate that we’re here for fun, I still have no desire to put something on that will accentuate curves I don’t want accentuated.
I walk along some mannequins. Fit and flare’s not for me. Mermaid cuts just highlight my hips, and this wedding doesn’t exactly call for a ball gown.
Then I see a dress that makes my breath catch.
There’s no sparkle, no lace. In fact, it’s the absence of those things that make it demand my attention.
My eyes trace the curve of the bodice, the daring plunge of the V-neck held perfectly in place with illusion mesh.
Clean lines. Seamless darts. Whoever designed this knew exactly what they were doing.
I take a step closer. The fabric looks structured—satin-backed crepe, maybe?
I don’t need to put it on to know it would likely fit me with minimal tailoring.
The waist hits exactly where it should. The flare begins just high enough to elongate my thighs and make my hips look intentional.
The train fans behind it like poured cream.
At the back, a crisp architectural bow falls into the chapel-length train with such elegance, I feel a little weak at the knees.
And now I’m seeing the downside of doing this: accidentally falling in love with a dress.
Not only does this dress scream Wrenley St. James, but I can picture myself standing in it at the altar… with Ruger.
What about this one? Remi’s voice snaps me out of it.
She holds out a dress with more lace than I’d know what to do with. It has sleeves, and— She rustles the skirt, grinning as her hand disappears into the folds. —pockets!
Pull it, I say.
Remi should at least get to see me try on something she likes.
Champagne! Davone’s singsongy voice cuts through the space.
Remi eagerly accepts two flutes. Cheers to my sister-in-law-to-be.
I clink my glass gently against hers. Cheers.
What did we land on for style? Davone asks as he hands Ruger a flute of sparkling rosé.
Ruger eyes it like he was given a glass of sewage.
Boho, I say, naming the style Remi’s holding. I know it’s not for me, but it’s safer to try on something I won’t fall for.
I adore boho! Very Alaskan. Are we talking barn-style wedding?
More like courtroom, Ruger says dryly.
Oh my goodness. Are you the groom? Davone clutches his pearls—or would if he were wearing any.
Is it okay for him to see me in my wedding dress? I ask, giving Ruger an out.
Sweetie, this is 2024, not 1924. I’m an out gay man in a red state. If that’s okay, then this is definitely okay. He winks at Ruger and Remi. Remi returns the wink. You two hold tight.
Davone and I browse the racks and pull some options.
You go in and put one on, he says. Once you’re covered, I’ll come in and do up any zippers and buttons.
I look at the pile of gowns we’ve collected. When Davone asked for my budget, I told him I didn’t have one. It’s not a lie… not really. I don’t have a budget because I don’t have money for a dress.
I slip into the first one and call Davone in. He cinches and smooths and tugs it into shape, transforming it into something worthy of a bridal boutique mirror.
I step out carefully, holding the hem, but I already know it’s not me.
The lace is beautiful—delicate, vintage-inspired with scalloped seams someone clearly spent hours perfecting.
There’s craftsmanship here. I respect that.
But when I catch my reflection in the mirror, I see a bride, just not this bride.
The sleeves are sheer and fitted, tapering to narrow cuffs at the wrists. The bodice plunges in a way that’s supposed to feel romantic but just doesn’t sit quite right on me.
Twirl, honey, Davone says.
I oblige, letting the skirt flutter around me in soft tiers of lace that are meant to float.
Oh my God, Wren, Remi breathes. You look like a woodland goddess.
I’m not sure that’s the vibe I’m going for, I say.
Does it make you want to run off into the forest with your one true love? she asks.
I look at Ruger, and his expression is the same. He’s completely disinterested as he sips his champagne.
Maybe more like back into the change room to try on something else, I say.
Remi nods. You’re right. No settling.
I want to say we won’t be settling for any dress since I’m not buying one. But this isn’t about buying. It’s about being here, wedding dress shopping with my best friend.
And Davone doesn’t need to know he’s not making a sale today.
Let’s ask the groom, Davone says brightly, fluffing the skirt. Well, hubby?
Huh? Ruger looks like Davone just woke him from a nap. He looks at me, then back at Davone, but doesn’t say anything.
Remi elbows him. Doesn’t your fiancée look beautiful?
Uh, yeah. It’s a nice dress.
Not the one! Davone declares. Next!
We repeat the process. Dress after dress, Remi lights up while Ruger grunts.
I walk out, spin, pose, walk back in. By dress five, it stops being fun and starts feeling painful.
Remi is treating this like an honest-to-God wedding dress shopping trip, and I’m feeling more pressure from Davone than I was prepared to deal with.
There’s a knock.
I’m not ready yet, I say.
I just want to hand you a dress, sweetie. Your friend brought it.
Oh. I wipe a stray tear.
I open the door enough to take it from him—and freeze.
It’s the dress. The one from the mannequin.
It’s no surprise that Remi knew I liked it when she came up to me.
But knowing this isn’t real might’ve made her think it was best not to pull it.
It makes me wonder if she knows I’m starting to struggle with this wedding dress experience and wants me to try on the dress I love before we leave.
I pull the dress on, and it fits like it was made for me.
When Davone walks in, he gasps. Oh, sweetie. Why were we messing with boho when classic Hollywood is your thing?
He tweaks and smooths until everything is in place, and then I walk out.
Remi’s jaw drops. Tears fill her eyes in an instant. But it’s Ruger’s face that stops me dead in my tracks. For the first time all day, his eyes really find mine. He rubs his beard and blinks rapidly, scanning every inch of me.
Oh my God, Wrenley, Remi whispers, her voice catching. You look so beautiful.
I look in the mirror and nod slowly. It’s a perfect dress.
My eyes meet Ruger’s again. There’s undeniable heat there.
His gaze traces me like he’s wondering how this dress would look on the floor.
I feel it in my belly, warm and fluttering.
Remi notices the way he’s looking at me.
I see the double take and shift in her expression that she quickly hides behind a tight smile.
Let’s complete this look, Davone suggests.
He adds the finishing touches—a long veil cascading down my back and a simple gold chain clasped around my neck.
What do you think? he asks.
I love it, I say softly. But I have to look into my finances before I can commit.
Of course. But your friend said you’re on a schedule, so don’t wait too long. He glances at Ruger. Come on, stand next to your bride. Let’s see the full picture.
Remi nudges him forward. He joins me at the mirror and takes my hand in his. Just like the dress, he fits.
I stare at our reflection. We look like two people who belong to each other.
Fresh tears sting my eyes. I blink quickly, smiling through them like they’re tears of joy. Because the truth is, this is exactly how I want to look when I marry Ruger. For so many reasons, I won’t.
Because he’s not really my fiancé. He’s not really going to be my husband. And no matter how good his hand feels in mine, there is no room for real feelings. Not when the only thing real about this is the ache divorce is going to leave behind.