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4Eloise

“El, you need a date to the wedding.”

I choke on my complimentary champagne as Rachel throws back the curtain of the private dressing room at Atelier Unveiled and steps out into the little circular show area.

“What?” I cough and put my glass down, temporarily blinded by the thousands of crystals sewn into the bodice of the wedding gown my best friend is currently strapped into. “No!”

“No to the dress or no to the date?” Rachel asks.

“Both,” I say, as she turns to examine her reflection in the large mirrors.

“Yeah, this feels like a Swarovski store threw up on me,” she says, frowning. “And god, it’s tight. Okay, next.”

She disappears behind the curtain to try on another option. This is the seventh dress shop we’ve visited in the months since her engagement. Rachel’s deep-seated pickiness is going to result in her wearing a burlap sack down the aisle. Honestly, she’d probably look amazing in burlap and start a new trend.

Ever since her call back in January with the news, I have been determined to stay positive. Or at least, to not let Rachel sense the spiraling panic that’s been slowly tightening within me. The fear that I’ll lose her. That things will change. That she won’t be my Rachel anymore.

But I’ve looked at flower arrangements and bridesmaid dresses and hairstyles and makeup options—Rachel has that covered, seeing as she’s about to open her own line of cosmetics. She’s a well-established influencer on social media, and her makeup tutorials have gained her a massive following. I’ve done all the things a best friend is supposed to do, and I’ve even managed to smile through most of it.

A date, though, is a bridge too far. And Rachel should know that.

I’ve never had real a boyfriend. I dated, kind of, back in college. I’ve hooked up, had sex, ticked off those experiences. But real intimacy is just not in the cards for someone like me, and guys don’t like to wait around, or so I’ve discovered.

She sweeps the curtain aside and steps back out. This dress isn’t as bad as the last one—strapless, skintight, with a fishtail skirt. It hugs Rachel’s incredible figure, and her light brown skin complements the ivory fabric.

“Better,” I say. “But I don’t know if it’s you.”

While part of me has been tempted on more than one occasion to tell her just say yes to the damn dress already so I don’t have to keep going to all these appointments, I could never do that. I know how important this is to her. I understand Rachel’s perfectionist tendencies the way she understands my anxiety.

She angles one hand on her hip, and chews on her lower lip. “Yeah,” she agrees. “I don’t know, maybe strapless isn’t the way to go for this. Diego’s family is, like, mega conservative. He keeps telling me that whatever I want is fine, but I’m like, honey, I worked in the Hamptons for a summer. These kinds of people do not know the meaning of ‘fine.’ There is no fine. I need to … I don’t know … fit.”

You fit with me, I want to say.

“You fit wherever you are,” I say aloud. “Because you’re Rachel. If his family doesn’t see that, they’re idiots.”

She turns her gaze on me, a smile blooming across her face. Rachel has the best smile. It makes you feel like you’ve just eaten a lemon drop—sunny and tart and sweet all at once. She shuffles over, the skirt so tight she can barely move her legs, and plops down next to me.

“You know you’re my best friend ever, right?”

“Right,” I say.

“And you know I need you with me for this, because no one else gets me the way you do, right?”

I feel a pinch of pride.

“Right,” I say again.

“I know this is a lot for you,” she says. “Even though you’re like the first maid of honor in the history of weddings with approximately zero responsibilities.”

I grin. Rachel knows that planning a bachelorette party or a bridal shower is simply not within my capabilities. Coordinating with people I don’t know? Not a chance. I can’t send an email without rereading it twelve times and then having a mild panic attack afterward. Rachel’s other friends are loud, and cool, and fun, and the opposite of me.

“But I was wondering if you could take on just one teeny tiny responsibility …” she says hesitantly.

My pulse kicks up, and I feel the beads of sweat start to form under my arms. Rachel chuckles.

“It’s not scary, it’s a good thing,” she promises. She can always tell when my anxiety revs up. She purses her lips. “Okay, maybe it’s a little scary.”

“Not helping,” I say.