“I think I might like lace,” India says, her voice still low, her eyes widening as though she can’t believe it herself. “I think lace is pretty.”
Juliet squeals so loudly that a woman from the front rushes back to ask us if we’ve found something we want to try on. I nudge Jules in the ribs and then tell the solicitous lady—who no doubt earns commissions—that we’ll let her know if we need help.
“India, lace is gorgeous,” Jules says once the woman has returned back to the front of the shop. “It totally is gorgeous.”
“I just didn’t think I would ever wear it,” India says, and I’m pleased to see the embarrassment fading from her cheeks. “That’s all.”
“You’re allowed to wear lace,” I say. “You can wear ruffles and tulle and everything floofy if you want?—”
“I don’t want,” India cuts me off, her nose wrinkling. “But…I do like lace. Maybe some kind of overlay.”
“On the skirt too?”
“No…” She trails off, her voice thoughtful. “I think just on the top. Like…” She bites her lip and then takes a few steps down the row of dresses, sorting through them until she finds what she’s looking for. “Like this one.”
Juliet doesn’t squeal again, but I can tell she’s struggling not to.
“You want to try it on?” I say.
And, still biting her lip, India nods.
She’s not an impulsive person, and definitely not an impulsive wedding dress buyer, but twenty minutes later, we can tell: This is the one.
The a-line dress is sleeveless, and India has the arms to pull it off. The neck is high, the lace bodice fitted, and the skirt flows delicately to the floor, light and loose instead of heavy or weighed down.
“Quick,” I say to Juliet. “Send a picture to Mom and Poppy.”
Juliet snaps a photo as India tries and fails not to beam; she turns back to the mirror and looks at herself again, and her smile somehow grows even wider.
“You look like a princess,” Jules says, and I nod.
“It’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.”
“And I like the ivory rather than the stark white.”
“Me too,” India says. “I think it’s warmer.”
“What are you thinking for your hair?”
“I’m not sure yet,” India says, her expression turning thoughtful. “I wantsomething, but I don’t really want a veil.”
“You’ve got time,” I say. “We can find something you’ll love.”
“I love Felix,” she says simply, tucking her hair behind her ear. “The rest is just icing on top.”
Juliet gives a dreamy sigh, and I swallow past whatever emotion is blooming in the back of my throat—something slight but prickly and tinged with regret.
“My baby all grown up,” I say, because it’s the closest I can come to vocalizing this feeling.
The feeling that things are changing, that nothing will ever be the same; that our lives are moving forward, but only if we let them. That there may come a time when I’m left behind, too much of a coward to step into the unknown.
I can’t say these things to my sisters. I just can’t. So I smile instead, and India and Jules both smile in response.
“Should we get ice cream to celebrate?” Juliet says, clasping her hands together.
I snort. “If you’re buying.”
“I’m buying,” she says happily, looking back and forth between us. Then she links arms with India. “Are we done here, bride-to-be? Or do we need to do anything else?”
