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Brea
Iam the kind of girl who would eat cheese puffs on my wedding day then accidentally wipe my hands on my dress. I am also the kind of girl who still lives at home with her parents, engages in elaborate and gratuitous daydreams about the boyfriend she will never have, and lives out her wedding fantasies vicariously through the brides for whom she sews wedding dresses.
Yes, friends, I’ve never been to a wedding I didn’t cry at, and I love helping brides celebrate their big day, even if they go a little kooky from prewedding dieting…or transform into full-blown bridezillas.
“Those were some of the most entitled brides I’ve ever seen,” Grace declared as we walked into the restaurant of the hotel that was hosting the Manhattan bridal convention we were attending.
“You mean you don’t want to give away a whole wedding-planning package for free?” Ivy asked her, rolling her eyes.
“If they let me design the dress I want, then I’d gladly do it, but I’m not going to hot glue flowers onto antique lace in the pattern of the groom’s face unless I am being paid very well,” I added, bouncing on my heels and slurping my fifth cup of coffee that morning. There was a Starbucks next to the restaurant, and I had stopped to buy a coffee before lunch with extra whipped cream and extra sprinkles.
Coffee and sugar were the best ways to start the day. I usually tried to be up by sunrise so I could take advantage of any natural daylight to sew. But today, I had woken up extra early, because the Weddings in the City collaborative had had to be at the bridal convention bright and early. Between the caffeine and all the syrup drizzles I had stashed in my purse to spike the cheap convention-center coffee, I was hyped.
As we waited for a hostess to come seat us for lunch, two Wall Street bros walked into the reception area behind us. Weddings in the City worked exclusively with the rich and powerful in Manhattan, so I’d been around my fair share of billionaires. Fancy suits, understated designer sunglasses, two-hundred-thousand-dollar watches, general aura of sociopath about them—these men clearly had billions, and they weren’t afraid to rub it in your face.
I might want to rub something else of theirs in my face, I thought then squashed it. I refused to acknowledge their hotness.
“One thing is for certain,” Sophie added. “If any of our brides ask me to glue pictures of their ex-boyfriends on their wedding cake, I am going to gently steer them to Costco. It’s criminal the way that booth had those cakes displayed and was telling brides that it was a popular style.”
“It wasn’t as bad as some of those dresses in the runway show,” Elsie said. “I’m surprised you didn’t burn the place down, Brea.”
“I feel like you can be sexy on your wedding day without having the barest triangle of rhinestone-studded satin covering your nipples.” I shuddered. “That dress is going to give me nightmares. Especially since it looked like it was Velcroed together. I don’t trust any of those seams to hold.”
One of the Wall Street bros behind us snorted derisively. I turned around to glare at him. With his black hair swept off his forehead by a neat part, the Wall Street bro was devilishly handsome and right out of the pages of one of the romance novels I devoured. Deep-blue eyes caught mine, and I whirled back around. I was sure a man like that had women falling all over him. I refused to give his ego any fuel.
“Did you find some nice fabric?” Amy asked. “You were giving your credit card a workout!”
“When you see handmade Leavers lace at that price, you have to buy,” I said, opening my large bag. “Several of the more spiritual brides have been asking for this type of custom lace that complements their astrology sign.”
“Are you serious?” the Wall Street bro behind me muttered under his breath.
I clenched my coffee cup.Don’t say anything. You’re hyped on caffeine. You aren’t rational.
A gaggle of soon-to-be-brides crowded into the restaurant lobby. One of them hopped up to me.
“Hi, Brea! I saw your presentation on timeless wedding dresses,” she gushed, whipping out a stuffed bridal idea notebook. “Do you mind telling me what kind of dress you think I should buy?”
I regarded her thoughtfully, analyzing her features and comparing them to the catalogue of wedding dresses I had stored in my head.
“I think you could look good in a number of styles. They’re all completely different,” I said, launching into my lecture on wedding dresses. All the coffee and sugar were pounding in my head, and I was ready for weddings! “The mermaid flatters a curvy figure. Everyone looks good in a trumpet gown. The ball gown is a classic. Then there’s the sleek gown and the one that shows your midriff for those of us who are more adventurous…and toned!”
The Wall Street bro, who was scrunched to the wall, trying to get as far away as possible from the frantic women in varying shades of white dresses, looked at me as if I was insane. I took another sip of my coffee.
“But for you,” I told the young bride, “I would probably go with an off-the-shoulder gown, with a scoop neck. I can tell you’ve been taking your upcoming wedding seriously, and your collar bones look insane!”
“I just gotengaged!” She giggled then screamed, making Wall Street Bro cringe, and stuck out her hand to show me the brilliant diamond on her finger. “I am so excited to find a wedding dress.”
“I would definitely do a trumpet with your figure,” I told her, pulling out several large pictures of various dresses I had designed.
“I wish you would design a consumer wedding dress line,” the bride-to-be said wistfully. “I don’t have fifteen thousand dollars for a dress.”
“You make these women pay fifteen thousand dollars for a fucking dress?” Wall Street Bro exploded, clearly having reached his wedding limit.
All the brides gaped at him.
“Yes,” I said, straightening up. “I hand sew couture dresses. You can, of course, buy similar dresses for a few thousand less, but they may be the same dress another bride has.”
