Page 42 of Bossy Bride: Emma and Jesse

I have to admit, none of these dresses are very spectacular. They’re all a little bit ragged. And the trains are kinda dirty from being dragged across the floor. And yeah, if this is only going to take twenty minutes… I’m not convinced what Emma ends up with will be anything amazing.

But Emma doesn’t seem to notice. And even if the dress isn’t amazing, it will still be special. Because from what I’ve seen so far, this Fingers dude, he’s definitely cornered the market on fantasy Vegas elopement weddings.

The whole fuckin’ thing is insane.

Emma gets up and starts looking over all the dresses. The dressmaker snaps her fingers again and a whole team of women appear with measuring tapes and start measuring Emma while she points to various elements she likes.

Another team works on my measurements and there’s lot of talk about buttons, and lace, and chiffon, and bodices, which is all a little bit boring. But then I hear ‘garters.’ And ‘corset.’ And ‘stockings.’

I can get on board with that.

Except… this is kinda taking a while. The next time I look at my watch it’s nearly nine o’clock.

I walk over to Emma. “Hey, babe.”

“Oh, this dress, Jesse. Oh, my God. You’re gonna love it.”

“I already do. But… it’s getting late. I don’t understand how we’re gonna do three weddings in two hours. It doesn’t seem possible.” I direct my apprehension towards the stoic dressmaker. She ignores me. So I say, “Excuse me. Do you know when we’ll be… you know, getting this show on the road?”

She shakes her head, pins in her mouth as she fusses with one of the roller-brides’ dresses. “Not my department.” Then she juts her chin at something behind me.

I look over my shoulder and see a tall, thin man wearing a faded red polo shirt waving his fingers at me. His blond hair is clearly combed over a large bald patch on top of his head and he’s chewing on a toothpick like a moment hasn’t gone by in the past fifteen years where he didn’t have a toothpick in his mouth. It dangles for a second, then his tongue flips it over to the other side of his mouth, and it bounces between his lips to the beat of Under the Boardwalk playing on the jukebox.

I walk over to him. “Are you one of the Thumbs?” Which I realize is an inside joke between Emma and I, but it must not be original, because he gets it.

“Yes.” He laughs. “I’m Steve, your Fingers’ Fantasy Wedding Pick Three Buffet coordinator number one. Are we almost ready here? Or does your bee-u-tee-ful bride-to-be need a few more minutes?”

“Yeah, ah… I think so. Emma? I’m not trying to rush you, but”—I tap my watch—“it’s getting late. We wanna make sure we get the full wedding experience.”

“Full wedding experience coming your way,” Steve assures me.

“OK, OK, OK,” Emma says. Then she points to something else on the dress and turns to walk over to us with her shoulders all bunched up to her ears, wide toothy grin on her face.

I take her hand and give it a squeeze.

“You are one lucky man,” Steve says.

“Don’t I know it.”

“OK.” Steve rubs his hands together so fast I almost fear he’ll spark up a fire from the friction. “Let’s do this! Your chariot awaits!”

He pans his hand at the window to a sparkly lavender van. On the side panel, in large fancy script font, it says “Fingers’ Fantasy Weddings” and there’s a picture of a cheesy car-salesman-type dude—presumably Fingers—making a heart with his fingers. And nope. I can count ten of them, so he’s not missing any.

Emma and I look at each other and shake our heads.

“OK,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Emma looks over at the dressmaker. She’s already sitting down at the machine, barking orders at everyone as they bring her fabric and lace. “But… what about my dress?”

Steve smiles even bigger, his toothpick still bouncing on his lips. “The dress is for the last wedding. That’s the special one. The first two are just a taste of what could have been.”

Emma nods like this makes sense. “Ah. OK. We’re in your capable hands, Steve.”

And can I just say? I love her optimism. I’m pretty sure this whole thing is gonna be a disaster—I mean, it hasn’t been planned, none of our family will be here, and the whole setup is ridiculous—but she believes.

And because of that… I decide to believe too.

We go outside and Steve swings the side door of the van open with a flourish that would make Vanna White jealous. And inside it is what can only be described as tricked out.