23. Emzee
EMZEE
“Oooh, how about this one?” Tori squealed, whirling around with yet another voluminous monstrosity of tulle and seed pearls on a hanger.
“Oh, um, wow,” I said, trying to sound not-so-horrified. “It’s so…Cinderella.”
Tori frowned. “Too ball-gowny?”
“Everything you love is too ball-gowny, Tor,” Brooklyn said from an adjacent rack.
“She can at least give it a try,” Tori pointed out, waving over one of the shop employees. “Can you please add this one to the dressing room? Thank you so much.”
“Speaking of which,” Brooklyn said, “I think it’s time you got in there, Em.”
My regular Vault Lunch with The Wives had been cancelled, my sisters-in-law having decided to forgo our usual date in favor of whisking me off to try on “dream” wedding dresses. The wedding dresses of their dreams, apparently. Not that I was surprised.
Michelle, Tori’s stepmother, had managed to secure a private appointment for the three of us at Blue, one of the most exclusive bridal salons in Chicago.
That meant the shop was closed to everyone in the city except me, Tori, and Brooklyn, and that for the next few hours, all of the employees were at our beck and call.
My anxiety was through the roof.
Even though I knew there were no wrong choices—all the dresses were beautiful, and my sisters-in-law were nothing but sweet and encouraging—I’d approached the outing with trepidation.
Regardless of the fact that the wedding was fake, the urge to find exactly the right dress was real.
I’d have basically a million pairs of eyes on me during the ceremony (and after, via the tabloids and society pages), and I had to look perfect. But I still wanted to look like me.
Problem being, there wasn’t a single scrap of black fabric to be found in the bridal shop.
I knew, of course, that I would be wearing a white dress. I wasn’t interested in rocking the proverbial boat, especially not on my wedding day. But the act of actually showing up at Blue to try on dresses today was forcing me to acknowledge the reality of the situation.
In a matter of months, I was going to be marrying Ford Malone. In a white dress. In front of our families, our friends, and the social elite of Chicago.
And as uncomfortable as I’d be in my head and my heart all day, I couldn’t stand the idea of also being uncomfortable in whichever dress I ended up having to wear for hours upon end. Nor my shoes. And what about my veil? Did people still expect brides to wear veils these days?
“Come on, Em, this is only round one,” Brooklyn coaxed, wrapping her arm around my shoulders to hustle me toward the dressing room. “You’re going to be doing this for hours.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” I said dryly.
Down the hallway, I could see a pedestal surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors, which I gathered I was meant to endure each time I tried on a dress.
Meanwhile, Tori had settled her lovely, very pregnant self into a comfortably overstuffed chair to wait for the fashion show, as employees flitted about with glasses of champagne and dress clips and measuring tapes. Oh, joy.
My eyes actually bugged out when I saw the dressing room that had been prepared for me. At least twenty dresses were hanging from the hooks in there, and the spacious changing room looked like it had just suffered a literal explosion of tulle, satin, and lace.
“Oh boy,” I murmured, my stomach knotting with overwhelm as I tried to take it all in.
I fought the impulse to run from the store. To run from Chicago. To run from this whole mess that I’d agreed to be involved in.
“I know,” Brooklyn said. “It’s a lot. But we have all day. Enjoy it!”
She looked so excited that I knew there was no way I could escape.
One of the Blue employees followed me into the dressing room and immediately got to work unlacing the first dress for me.
It was one that Tori had chosen, exactly the kind of frothy, princess-y, over-the-top concoction that would look great on her—but as I stood there in my underwear, I could already tell that it wasn’t right for me.
I’d been told to wear undergarments that could work with a variety of dresses, so I had on a nude thong and a strapless, low-back corset bra.
I’d also been advised to wear heels that were about the same height as what I’d wear for the wedding, so I had my special occasion stilettos on, though I planned to switch into flats as soon as the official ceremony was over.
Still, I was teetering dangerously on those heels as I stepped into the skirt, and I had to grab onto the salesgirl’s arm for support to make sure I didn’t accidentally tear something expensive.
Once I was situated, the hoisting began.
The salesgirl tugged the dress up over my hips and then instructed me to hold the bodice against my chest as she laced me in from the back. It took almost ten minutes to get the whole thing on and fastened, and she hadn’t even laced the corset completely.
I tried to turn around, hitting the salesgirl with the enormous skirts as I did.
She gamely leapt out of the way as I waddled out the door, following behind me while I propelled my poofy self down the hall.
The dress made quite the rustling sound.
And God, it weighed a fricking ton. The thought of spending an entire night in this thing, when I could barely move, was like a nightmare. And I hadn’t even seen how it looked.
The salesgirl presented me to Tori and Brooklyn with a dramatic, “Ta-da!”
Tori let out a gasp of delight as I trudged over and got some help stepping up onto the pedestal so I could finally get a look at myself.
I had to admit, I was a vision. A vision of a giant cupcake.
“What do you think?” Tori asked, hands clasped to her chest.
All I saw in the mirror were piles of white fluff, shimmering sequins, and embroidered lace.
The dress overwhelmed everything. Including me.
Sure, my boobs looked great, but that was the gift of big tits and a corset.
They were practically overflowing, and I had a feeling that if I bent over, or breathed in too deeply, there was a real possibility I’d spill right out of the top.
“It’s very, um, prom queen-ish,” Brooklyn said carefully as I turned a little to the left and then the right. “What do you think, Tori?”
“It’s a gorgeous dress,” Tori said, her eyes shining. “What do you think, Em?”
Frowning, I shook my head. I had to nip this in the bud, or else I’d be stuffing myself into these kinds of princess dresses until midnight.
“It is a gorgeous dress, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like I’m swimming in all this fabric.
I’m just too short for these styles. I mean, look at me. I look like a…a glittery pumpkin.”
Brooklyn let out a snort, and then both of us were laughing, even as Tori pouted. “Try one of mine next,” Brooklyn suggested. “Pretty please? I’m dying to see one of them on you.”
“Sure,” I said, attempting to sound upbeat. “Coming right up.”
I shuffled back to the dressing room, sighing with relief when I was unlaced from the dress.
The salesgirl pulled a fresh gown off of one of the hooks and handed it to me, then left me to it.
I saw right away that the dress Brooklyn had chosen would require far less help than the one I’d just stepped out of.
Mainly because there was practically nothing there.
Typical Brooklyn. Being a model herself, she always loved things that were avant-garde, fashion forward, and devastatingly sexy.
Though some were rather concerningly sexy.
Slipping out of my strapless bra, I wiggled into a dress that was borderline obscene—the upper portion was sheer, flesh-toned mesh with strategically placed strips of raw silk to cover my nipples, and the skirt was thigh-skimmingly tight all the way to the knee, where it spilled into an asymmetrical hem with a ruffle.
It was stunning, and would have looked amazing on Brooklyn. On me, though…
My phone buzzed at that moment, and I dug it out of my bag to find I’d gotten a text from Ford.
How’s it going? he’d asked.
It is, in fact, going, I texted back. I feel very sorry for the employees of Blue. My sisters-in-law have them running around in circles. I myself am about ready to have a heart attack.
“Do you need any help in there?” the Blue employee asked from outside the door.
“No,” I said, dropping my phone back in my bag. “I’m coming out.”
I had to take mincing little penguin steps all the way to the pedestal, thanks to how tight the skirt was, and I wondered if the side seams would survive me actually sitting down.
This time it was Brooklyn that let out a gasp of excitement.
“Oh my God, Emzee, it’s fucking incredible!” she exclaimed, hopping up off her chair to come over and poke at me, trailing her hand down the shimmering skirt fabric. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s certainly…different,” Tori said, obviously trying to sound impartial.
“I think there’s a bit too much side boob going on,” I said, narrowing my eyes at my reflection. “And too much top and bottom boob, as well. There’s no way I can wear a bra with this dress.”
“That’s what they make fashion tape for,” Brooklyn offered. “It’s double-sided and super sticky. It works.”
“Mm,” I said, glancing at the Blue employee, whose expression remained neutral. “The thing is, I’d rather literally die than have Ford’s mother see a wardrobe malfunction happen if the bodice shifts and exposes a full-on nipple on my way up the aisle.”
Tori shot Brooklyn an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to agree. It’s really pretty, but it’s also…distracting? With Emzee’s chest—no offense, Em—it’s impossible not to stare at the whole boob area. And those silk shreds just make it even more of an eye magnet.”
Pouting, Brooklyn let out a sigh. “Fine. I can’t argue with that. I concede.”
Off I minced, back to the dressing room. A different Blue salesgirl was waiting for me there, a younger woman I’d taken note of earlier thanks to the black rose tattooed on her wrist.