When we were a few hundred yards from the Vera Wang storefront, Amy's feet began to carry her faster. “This. This is what I wanted to show you. What do you think?” She tapped the window as I caught up. On the other side of the glass, a faceless mannequin wore an exquisite white gown, with the perfect amount of poof in the skirt and just a hint of sparkle, like something Cinderella would wear. It wasn't an exact match for the dress our mom had worn, the one we'd only seen in photographs, but it wasn't far off.
I started to cry, silent and slow, my tears nearly freezing on my cheeks. My first thought of weddings was always the framed portrait of our parents that had hung on the living room wall at home. When I was five or six and I wanted to be a princess, our mom was a shining example. When I was seven or eight, it became the only evidence that our parents belonged together. Our mom was radiant. Dad looked so handsome in his tux. More than anything, they were a visual representation of true love. They gazed into each other's eyes like nothing else, and certainlyno one else, mattered. It was impossible to imagine that they would end up the way they did.
Even today, if someone were to ask my opinion of the way marriage should be, I would want to have that photograph so I could say, “This is what marriage should look like. Two people who love each other more than anything. You stay together. Forever.” But it wasn’t so easy to point to the portrait anymore. My dad took it off the living room wall a week after my mom passed away, and banished it to the back of the coat closet.
“What do you think?” Amy asked. “Too much?”
I shook my head, my sights swinging back and forth between her and the dress. I choked back tears that could only be described as coming from a place of mourningandhappiness. “It's perfect. You'll look amazing in it.”
“It's so expensive.”
“So? You should have the perfect dress. This is the perfect dress. I'll chip in if you need help paying for it.” I never would have thought so a week ago, but I wanted that dress for her more than anything.
Amy cocked her head. “Are you feeling okay?”
I nodded eagerly. “Yes. I'm just emotional. Seeing the dress. Thinking about the wedding.” It was really happening. And I had to stop holding my breath. “It's going to be such an amazing day and you're going to be the most beautiful bride ever.”
“God, I really hope so. I have such a hard time picturing it.”
“That's what bridal magazines are for. We'll figure it out.”
For as many times as our aunts, uncles, and grandparents had been married, Amy and I hadn't been to many weddings as kids. Most of them took place in far-off, exotic locales like Illinois and our parents never wanted to drive that far. We did go to our Aunt Lucy's weddings, since she lived only a half hour away. Our Mom's sister, she has had five husbands, which always astounded me. How do you find five people to spend your entire life with? Even by the fifth husband, she was still having formal portraits taken. She just recycled the frame. I'd once made a joke that it was like walking past a movie theater, since you never knew who would be in that frame the next time you came to visit. I was never Aunt Lucy's favorite.
My phone buzzed with a text and I jumped. It was like the sound was plugged into my heart, like jumper cables on a car battery.
“It must be Eamon,” Amy said, sounding frantic. “Read it, read it.”
“Hold your horses.” I fumbled with the buckle on my bag, and slipped my cell out of its hiding place.
Four Seasons, Rm 4908. Can’t wait. XXX
Never before had a text made me so excited. Or sick to my stomach.
Amy craned her neck to see the screen. “Triple-x? Is that some sort of sex code between you two?”
I rolled my eyes, but it wasn't that absurd an idea knowing Eamon and me. “No. It's like kiss, hug. Except it's kiss, kiss, kiss.”
“What are you going to wear for your coffee date?”
“It's not a date.”
“It's a date. He was not about to take no for an answer.”
Oh, crap.“I have no clue. You have to help me figure it out.”
“Of course. Even if it takes all night.”
Chapter Four
Jeans.After an hour of trying on clothes last night, Amy and I had arrived at jeans.
“You sure I shouldn't wear a skirt?” I asked as I tugged on my black wool coat and buttoned it up.
Amy rolled her eyes and jabbed the button on the Keurig to brew another cup. “I’m officially tired of talking about this. Your ass looks amazing in those jeans. Especially with the boots. End of discussion.”
The boots had been my next question. Even with heels on, he'd still tower over me, but it would be less exaggerated, and I loved the way I felt small when I was with him. The advantages Eamon had were too numerous to count, but I didn't begrudge him a single one. “You sure they don't make me look like I'm trying too hard?”
“He's used to women trying. He probably won't even notice.”
