POPPY
Let’sget this over withare not the words I imagined myself thinking on my way to try on wedding dresses. But I can’t help wishing I could fast-forward through this, get to the credits already.
Ever since I told Ethan I’d take over more back end work and leave the café in his capable hands, I can no longer ignore the stack of boxes full of loose papers Aunt Dahlia never had the wherewithal to organize. She was always a free-spirit, and apparently that meant she didn’t organize anything when it came to the business.
Between trying to get a handle on what it will mean for me once the deed to the café is transferred to me—ifthe deed gets transferred—and Brooke in my ear about wedding planning, my capacity for shopping is at an all-time low.
I’ve already used all my capacity for decision-making on which fine China I want, whether I want napkins with a blue border or silver, whether I want pink roses, or white.
It’s mentally exhausting.
And today, instead of being elbow deep in invoices andtax returns like I should be, I’m about to be elbow deep in frilly chiffon, tulle, and lace.
I might feel differently about it if Jett was the man I wanted to marry, if I thought this was my one and only shot at having a wedding. But every day I’m reminded that that’s not the case, that this isn’t real.
Last night at the bowling alley was yet another reminder. I thought he might have kissed me when we were alone, but I guess that wasn’t part of the agreement. Other than our first kiss, which I realize now he did as a favour to me, we agreed to dating lessons as part of the publicity stunt. Not in private.
We’ll be husband and wife on paper and to the public, but behind closed doors, we’ll be nothing more than roommates.
Wren is waiting for me in the lobby of the bridal salon when I arrive. I didn’t want anyone but her coming with me. I had a hard enough time keeping up the lie to all our friends at the engagement party.
Whatever anxiety and dread has been looming as this day has approached is replaced by a comforting calm when I see Wren, her bright red lips forming a warm smile as I greet her with a hug.
Before we can get into debriefing the party, a woman in a crisp pantsuit calls my name, and gestures for us to follow her into the back. She introduces herself as Lily, as she guides us through the store, pointing out different racks. They’re all laden with layers upon layers of silk, satin, chiffon, and lace.
The store is much more expensive for my taste—or my budget—but I have Jett’s credit card in my purse and strict instructions to spare no expense on the wedding dress.
Lily lets us browse and pull a few dresses that pique our interest, taking them from us and hanging them in the private fitting room area reserved for me. When we’re done perusing, she brings Wren and I both a glass of prosecco before leading me to the staging area behind a thick velvet curtain.
Her strength takes me by surprise as she reefs on the strings of the corset of the first dress. When she finishes tying me up, she throws open the curtain, and the rest of the bridal salon comes into view.
Wren is sitting opposite where I’m standing on a pink velour couch, sipping her bubbly.
I grab a fistful of the skirt and twirl it, as I look up to the mirror.
Wren’s face scrunches when she takes in the swaths of fabric adorning my petite frame, the skirts—plural—bunching and billowing around my feet.
Whatever dress I do decide on, they’ll need Cinderella’s mice to make it fit me properly. I’ll need magic to make it seem like I have any sort of shape to my body. Any semblance of curves would be nice.
I wasn’t a late-bloomer, I was more of a never-bloomed, and seeing how the dress puckers across my non-existent boobs makes my stomach sink.
Doesn’t matter.I’ll get to pick out the dress of my dreams whenever I get married for real. Until then, I need to keep my eye on the prize.
“This one is fine,” I say. Not exactly a glowing review for a bride, but for a staged wedding, it’ll do.
“Not it.” Wren cuts me off. Her face still scrunched.
I tilt my head in the mirror to look at it from every angle,but no matter what I do, I look like a child playing dress up in my mother’s clothes.
“Come on,” I argue. “It looks like a wedding dress. It just needs a bit of tweaking, and it’ll be perfect.”
Perfect, in that I won’t have to try on any more of the billowy monstrosities that are hanging in the dressing room.
Wren’s gaze darts between Lily and I before she speaks.
“Poppy, this is yourwedding.We’re not leaving until you find something you feel beautiful in.”
Lily is already nodding her head in agreement, and then she starts rifling through the dresses we picked, eventually holding up one of the clear plastic bags. This one is thinner, and I can already tell there’s less tulle and lace. It’s one that Wren picked earlier, and her eyes light up when she sees it.
