Page 89 of Seale the Deal

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.