Page 55 of D’Vaughn and Kris Plan a Wedding

“I’m just thinking about how I already have your measurements...”

Sitting up straight, I swiveled on the sofa to face her, heart rate increasing. “I know you aren’t saying what it sounds like you’re saying.”

My best friend of twenty years cocked her head to the side and smirked at me. “Except you know damn well that what I’m saying is exactly what I’m saying.”

“Cinta,” I whispered, my eyes welling, “are you being serious right now?”

She fixed me with a no-nonsense look. “What have I always told you?”

“That I’m the great non-romantic love of your life and whoever I marry has to understand that they are obligated to share me.”

Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she poked her lips out. “Huh. Well, yes. That too. And depending on how things progress with Ms. Thick Thighs Save Lives, I’ll be having a little talky-talk with her soon. But that isn’t what I was talking about. What else have I always told you?”

“That you’ll end me abruptly like my name was Girlfriends if I walk to the altar wearing anything but a wedding gown made by your two hands.”

Clasping her hands in front of her, Cinta quirked an eyebrow at me. “Okay, so...”

I groaned. “So, it’s not the same! We’re not even getting married. We just have to make it to the altar and we win.”

Frowning, she stuck a knuckle in her ear and shook, making her glasses slide down to the end of her nose. “Maybe I’m missing something because you just said ‘walk to the altar’ and ‘make it to the altar’ as if they mean different things. Baby girl, those two phrases aren’t just kin, they’re twins. Identical in fact. Same mama, same daddy, same amniotic sac.”

I busted out laughing. “Come on with the rhymes then, Cinta!”

“No, heifer! Don’t try to change the subject. Just be real with me. If you don’t want me to make your dress, say that. All of these excuses are pointless. We’re grown. Speak your mind.” She stared at me expectantly, not even giving me the courtesy of staring at the wall so that I wouldn’t feel so pressured by all of this.

Releasing a shuddering breath, I dropped my gaze to my hands in my lap. “I’m scared, friend.”

“What are you scared of, my boo?”

“I’ve always imagined myself wearing your dress when I got married, and I’m scared that wearing it now, only to get to the altar and not do the thing, will jinx it.”

Cinta reared back. “Jinx what?!” she asked incredulously. “The dress?”

I nodded solemnly. Among other things. “Yeah, and then I won’t be able to wear it again when it’s the real time and I’ll be ass out.”

She stared at me a moment before chuckling and sitting back against the sofa. “D’Vaughn, I almost just slapped the taste out of your mouth for saying that ridiculous shit.”

Pursing my lips, I frowned at her. “And then we would’ve been two tussling heifers because I ain’t going out like that.”

“I can’t believe you said that you’d be ass out as if I’d let that happen!”

“I’m not saying you’d let it happen—”

“Okay, then how would it happen if I didn’t let it happen? Because I’ve never let your camera-shy tail leave out the door unless you were suited and booted from the time you asked me if I wanted to be your best friend during recess in the fourth grade, so what’s really the truth, D’Vaughn?”

My view of her shrank as I squinted and wrinkled my nose. “Why did you have to dive deep into the historical facts though?”

Scoffing, Cinta stood up and started clapping her hands. “Because you got me fucked up! Now, stop playing with my emotions, Smokey, and let’s get to the root of the problem here.”

I covered my face with my hands as I flopped back against the couch. “It would be amazing if Kris and I made it to the ceremony and I wore your dress. Millions of people would see it and your business would explode.”

Propping her hands on her hips, Cinta nodded. “All true things. But?”

The desire to cry was a strong one and I pouted to hold back the urge. Cinta wasn’t going to let this go unless I gave her an answer that made sense.

“But if I wear a Cinta Crowder Original for a wedding that is broadcast on prime-time television and don’t get picked at the end, then that is just more humiliation to heap on. I don’t think I’d recover. In fact, I’d probably never date again.”

“Whew, shit. I didn’t know we were going to take a nosedive right into a nineteen-nineties-era dramedy. Good Lord, there is a lot to unpack in that little meltdown. Future dating, humiliation, picking. Where do I start?”