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“No,” Meghan interrupts. “I’m not letting you wear an already worn dress for your staged wedding. One day, you’ll look back at these pictures and be mad that you didn’t make the effort.”
“You do know this is afakewedding, not a real one, right?”
Savannah waves off my mild protest. “I agree with Meghan. What woman turns down an unlimited budget when shopping? Plus, when we’ve found you the perfect dress, then we can go and get drunk.”
Getting drunk sounds great right about now because this is either the best idea I’ve ever had, or the worst. Only time will tell. As I move around in my bedroom, I hear Meghan and Savannah conspiring in the other room.
“Which card did he leave you?” Meghan calls.
Not wanting to shout through to her, I walk into the living room as I pull on my coat. “Yes, he left me a card, but I don’t plan on using it.” I move a piece of mail to cover the black card he left on the table by the door before she sees it. “This isn’t real, so we really don’t need to make a big deal out of it. We can go to the courthouse, get some photos on the front steps, and then go to the park or something for some more.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening. The least he can do, after dragging you into his mess, is pay for us all to have a nice dinner and get us all a new dress each,” Savannah argues, a smirk falling across her face.
“I agree. This could be your only wedding, you have to do it right,” Meghan chimes in.
Has she not been listening to anything I’ve said today?
“This is astagedwedding. There will be no vows, no party, no declarations. This isn’t some fairytale where we’ll live happily ever after.”
“You don’t know that,” Meghan says with a grin. I think she’s turned delusional since Cooper and her got together. She’s intent on everyone having a happily ever after, and, for some reason, she thinks Sebastian is the one to give me mine.
Skirting around me, Meghan goes right for the mail I moved. She uncovers the card and her face lights up. “Ooh. AblackAmex?”
I try to grab it back from her, but she tucks it into her purse and beelines it to the door. For a pregnant woman she’s fast. Savannah and I follow her out, exchanging a look of amusement. It’s useless arguing with Meghan when she’s this determined.
Meghan and Savannah chatter amongst themselves as we ride in the back of a cab to one of my favorite department stores on Fifth Avenue. Sometimes, if I’m treating myself after handling a tricky case, I like to pick up something to make my day brighter.
Today feels like one of those days.
Despite what my friends think, I’m not a shopaholic. Sometimes I come and just browse the racks of expensive clothes and try on some pretty dresses, leaving without buying a thing.
As soon as we walk into the store, Meghan and Savannah make a beeline for a rack of royal blue evening dresses. They really are taking this way too far, but I guess it can’t hurt to have a look. I move away from them to a rack of white dresses further back on the floor.
My hand lands on a white dress with big, long puffy sleeves. From how it hangs, I can tell it’s off the shoulder and that it would cinch me in at the waist. It’s simple yet classy.
I stare at the dress, lost in thought, when from behind me there's a gasp and a squeal.Oh, please tell me they didn't see this.I stuff the dress back on the rack as quickly as I can, because it's perfect.Too perfect.
I don’t want this to be a memorable moment. Certainly not when no matter how good Bastian and I are together, our story won’t end with me wearing a white dress like this for real. No, whatever dress I choose, I won’t be keeping it.
“Oh, my God, that one is perfect. You have to try it on, Alex,” Savannah demands, reaching around me to pull the dress from the rack again. “Meghan, get your butt over here. Is this not the most perfect dress?”
Meghan scurries over, her face filled with delight. “Oh, my God! Yes, it’s perfect.”
Before I know what’s happening, I’m ushered into the fitting room and the dress is hung on the hook next to the mirror.
“The quicker you try it on, the quicker we can leave.” Meghan winks at me, closing the door and leaving me in peace.
Is this how Meghan felt all those years ago when I shoved her into her bathroom to put the dress on that I’d bought her?
No, she at least had tequila to get her through it.
Heaving out a heavy sigh, I sit on the bench that runs along the back of the changing room and slip out of my brown ankle boots. Next goes my jacket, then my jeans and finally my t-shirt, until I’m in nothing but my strapless bra and G-string.
When I step into the dress, I know it’s the one. At least for the purpose I’d be buying it for. It’s short, sitting just above mid-thigh but it fits me perfectly. Showing just enough cleavage that I feel sexy. It cinches me in at the waist, like I knew it would.
Briefly I wonder what dress I would have chosen if this was a real wedding. A sense of longing washes over me at the thought followed by a wave of nausea.
Will I ever get over him?
