The Mondayof the week I’m getting married, I find myself at the bridal boutique that Meredith recommended, all alone for what should be one of the most fun days of my life.
Instead, I feel wholly alone. Siobhan wouldn’t have been a blast to shop for a wedding dress with, but at least, if she were still alive, I would have had my sister here with me. She would probably have made cutting comments about what shade of white I should pick that wouldn’t clash with my hair, which is more ginger than copper, and about my figure in the silhouettes I like… but I wouldn’t have been alone.
I wouldn’t have had to ignore the look of pity on the saleswoman’s face when she asked me if anyone was coming, and I had to shake my headno.
The boutique has been closed down for my appointment, a private one arranged by Meredith. There’s a small tea service set out with tiny sandwiches and little cakes, a pot of Earl Grey cream tea, and a flute of champagne, in case I want to nibble or drink. In other circumstances, I probably would have found it adorable and exciting. But my stomach is twisted in so many knots that I’m pretty sure trying to eat or drink anything right now would result in me vomiting long before I got the first dress on.
The saleswoman—Abby—asks me about my preferences and tries to hide her clear frustration when I tell her that I really don’t know. I never dreamed about my wedding, but I will admit that I fantasized from time to time about a wedding dress. The truth is, though, that every fiber in me resents the idea ofwearing my dream gown to marry a man who clearly hates me, who I’m being forced into wedlock with. Showing up in a fantasy of tulle and pearls and silk seems like a betrayal of a more innocent version of me, one who imagined that when a husband was picked for her, it might at least be someone she liked.
But there’s no fairy tale for me—at least not one in which I’m not forced to marry the villain of the tale.
Sean seems to fit that description nicely. If he’s the beast he seems to be, he’s certainly not going to turn into a charming prince.
Abby brings back a mountain of gowns in different styles and proceeds to zip, lace, and button me into each one as I look in the mirror and try to feel something about any particular choice. There’s a plain white silk that makes my hair look far too orange, and the rest of me looks like a cupcake, and I almost choose it just out of sheer rebellion, to look as unappealing as possible. But there is some vanity in me, and so I tell her no.
There’s a mermaid gown that’s so uncomfortable that I can’t stand being in it for even a full minute, several dresses that are too trendy or casual to get married in the fanciest church in Boston, others that don’t suit me at all. Several are too sexy, with cutouts and low necklines that would get me kicked out of the church in an instant.
And then Abby brings out a dress so gorgeous that I can’t ignore it, even if I don’t want to get married to Sean in a dream gown.
Because for someone like me, who loves tea and Gothic novels and historical romances, rainy days and cuddling with my cat and imagining myself in far-off places, itisa dream.
The gown is a more antique style, in a champagne hue. The bodice is corseted all the way down past my hips, with intricate gold and beaded embroidery and embellishments all along the bust, the sides, and across the sharp V that it creates of mywaist. Champagne tulle falls straight down from beneath the corset, and the sleeves are a froth of layers of tulle that fall in a handkerchief style down to my elbows. Above the bust of the corset, illusion lace covered in more goldwork embroidery rises all the way up to a high-necked collar. Down the back, small pearl buttons close the back of the collar, and the lace covering my shoulders ending just above the corset lacing.
It’s modest, stunning, and the most unique dress I’ve ever seen.
“We don’t sell many from this designer,” Abby begins, “most brides prefer a more modern style. But since you haven’t liked anything you’ve tried on so far…”
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, feeling my throat tighten. I wish more than anything that I could have found this dress for a wedding I want, to walk down the aisle to a man I love, and see the look on his face.
But that was never going to happen for me. I stare at the dress and try to take some solace in the fact that at least I found something beautiful to wear… something that feels likeme.
“Do you want to try it on?” Abby asks. I don’t need to—I already know it’s the one, but I nod anyway. I slip on the dress as she buttons and laces it in the back, and my reflection in the mirror makes my breath catch.
I don’t look like a traditional bride, per se, but I do look likeme. It looks like exactly what I would choose, given the option, and I nod as Abby looks at me over my shoulder.
“This one,” I tell her firmly, and she helps me out of it, zipping the dress into a garment bag as I slip back into my leggings and sweater, and boots.
It occurs to me, as I head to the register, that I have no idea how I’m meant to pay for this. I was told to go to the appointment; I don’t have a card or cash on me or anything else.But Abby just rings it up, telling me that she’s been given an account to charge it to.
Well, that settles that, at least.
—
Two days before the wedding,I see Sean entirely by accident.
I decided, for some reason that I can’t fully articulate, to shop for my wedding night. Sean and I have been engaged for almost two full weeks by this point, and I’ve spoken to him fewer times than I have fingers on one hand—that first night when the Council members came to my house, that first meeting with Father McCleary, and when the contract was signed. The fourth time was the day after I purchased my wedding dress, when Sean came to the mansion again—clearly under duress—to have dinner with me, with Connor McBride there as a chaperone.
I nearly melted down under the pressure of a proposed dinner that I would need to plan at my house, for the head of the Irish Council and my future husband. Luckily, Mrs. Brady stepped in and put together a passable menu of balsamic-braised short ribs, buttery mashed red potatoes, roasted squash and asparagus, and even a strawberry trifle cake, with wine brought up from the cellar that my father kept stocked and that I’ve never actually been inside. I pretended that I had a hand in planning the menu when Connor complimented the food, and to my relief, the actual dinner was the only time I’ve seen Sean not look as if he’s two seconds away from punching the nearest solid object out of sheer anger.
In a roundabout way, that might have been what made me consider going out to shop for lingerie, a thing I never actually imagined doing until right now.
The dinner was comfort food, a good, hearty, enjoyable meal, and it seemed to soften Sean a bit—by which I mean he seemed marginally less pissed off. I’m definitely not going to be doing any cooking for him as a wife, but I considered that there might be another way to soften him, to make all of this slightly more pleasant.
Maybe if I seem like I’m making an effort, trying to be the ideal bride, he’ll be… easier to get along with. Gentler, at least. All I can do is try.
Especially since he refused to talk to me all throughout dinner.
I could tell it was pissing Connor off from the dagger-filled looks he kept shooting Sean every time I would try to ask a question or start a conversation, and Sean would just grunt before going back to his food. The tension between them was so thick it could have been cut with a knife, and I couldn’t help but think how it would be once Connor was gone, and there’d be no outlet for Sean’s anger but me.
