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“Before she dehydrates,” Beth says, sarcastically, turning back around to admire herself in the mirror.
“I work, Beth. I’m sorry I was late,” I tell her, trying to smooth things over.
“We all know how hard you work,” she takes a jab at me while looking over her shoulder. “Can you help me?” She motions for me to grab the bottom of her dress so she can step down.
“By the way, you look really beautiful,” I say, letting the lace of her dress fall back to the floor.
“Thank you.” Her expression softens as she smooths down the material of her dress.
“Where’s the rest of the bridal party?” I ask, looking around to see if they’re lurking in the dressing rooms somewhere.
“They all had their fittings weeks ago,” she explains, her expression softening. “I thought it would be nice if it was just you and I.” She looks down and adjusts the top of her dress.
What she really means is that she wanted to make sure I got my fitting done in time so I didn’t have an excuse to back out. I’m happy for my sister, but being a bridesmaid was excruciating the first time I did it for Beth, and that was nearly fifteen years ago, and I was chasing around a toddler.
Before we can finish our conversation, Sabrina makes her way back over, handing me a glass of champagne. “Fitting room number twelve is all set up for you whenever you’re ready,” she says.
“I think I’m going to need some help to get out of this,” Beth says nervously, looking down at her dress and trying to figure out how to get ahold of the zipper.
Sabrina laughs. “Of course, that’s what I’m here for.”
While Sabrina helps Beth out of her dress, I make my way through the store admiring the dresses, before reaching the fitting rooms. Close behind is Sabrina, her heels catching on the Berber carpeting announcing her arrival.
“I can hold that for you.” Sabrina says, reaching for my drink, but I move it out of her reach, narrowing my eyes at her while I slip inside fitting room number twelve.
A cushioned bench seat lines the back wall with a decorative mirror. Hanging on the back of the door is my dress – still inside the bag. I brace myself to unzip and unleash the horror trapped inside when there’s a knock on my door.
“Do you need help in there?” Sabrina’s voice filters through the thin dressing room door.
“I’ve been dressing myself since I was five, but thanks,” I say, and unzip the bag as if ripping off a Band-Aid.
When I step out of the dressing room Beth examines me, a sappy expression on her face as she admires the dress.
“This is punishment, isn’t it, Beth?” I say, turning around to face her because I can’t look at myself in the mirror.
“What are you talking about? It looks gorgeous on you.” She spins me back to face the mirror, looking at me from behind. The chiffon skirt flows all the way to the floor with a slit that opens when I walk. It cinches at the waist, the material criss-crossing at the top, with thin spaghetti straps. The dress itself is better than the first bridesmaid dress I wore, but it’s her color choice that I don’t like.
“It’s pink,” I say. “I don’t remember it being sopinkbefore.” I scrunch up my nose, scrutinizing it in the mirror.
“Yes,” she says, clearly annoyed, “because that’s the color scheme of my wedding;pink.”
Sabrina gathers the chiffon at the back rather tightly and sticks a couple of pins through the material, making it fit snug enough so we can keep the wedding PG13. She looks in the mirror at me and drops her eyes to my cleavage. “We have some products in the back to give you a little more oomph,” she gestures with her own cleavage, lifting it up higher to make a point.
Beth laughs while I spin around and say, “I’m forty-two,”
“Three,” Beth interjects, and I glare at her.
“Two,” I say sternly, “and I’ve had a kid. Plus, I’m not wearing a bra,” I spin back around and try to push my boobs up higher. “This is not a true measurement of their potential,” I explain to Sabrina.
She clears her throat. “I can have this ready to pick up next week,” Sabrina says, leaving Beth and I alone.
“Just don’t, Beth,” I hold my finger up as she snickers while I walk back into the dressing room to change.
Once inside, I take another look in the mirror and hold each boob up, taking a better look. They’re definitely not what they used to be, but I’m proud to say they've held up well over the years. “Pretty fucking good for a forty-two-year-old,” I whisper.
After changing, I zip up the bag and hang it on the outside of the door for Sabrina.
Taking my glass of champagne with me, I follow Beth through the store. We pass by racks of white wedding dresses, and my fingers skim as I pass, feeling the different materials of silk and lace.
