“Sounds great.”
“I’m about to set out some lovely new sweaters and such. Clothes from an estate sale,” she says, then waves to the pink chair. A mountain of neatly folded items sits on the chair, with dresses strewn over the back and jackets across the arm. “Feel free to take a look while you wait.”
“Sure,” I say, wandering over to the chair as she strides to the back of the shop, leaving Lake and me alone.
The store is quiet now; there’s a lull in the traffic outside. The Ella Fitzgerald music from earlier has shifted tosomething newer, poppier. Ivy May, I think, a twenty-five-year-old pink-haired Brit who can dance and sing about heartbreak.
“Mind if I look? Maybe I can find that dream argyle sweater for your sister,” I say as Lake leans against the counter.
“As a good BF I’d never get in the way of you thrifting.”
I roll my eyes. “I see you’re committed to the role.”
“So committed,” he says.
“Like I said, you’re cute.”
He growls. “Not cute.”
“So cute.”
He growls more deeply. “Cute things don’t give good growl.”
I smile as he drops another mention of my podcast, then paw through the sweaters, but there’s nothing quite right for Clem or me. I riffle through the dresses on the back of the chair, when something rustles under my hand.
Feels like paper maybe, but it’s also lacy. It’s so different from the rest of the clothes.
I tug on the fabric, pulling more of the material, and something catches my eye and my hand. There’s a piece of paper pinned inside the bodice of the dress, and it’s—a wedding dress.
And it doesn’t look old. It looks new and stylish.
The air whooshes from my lungs—estate sale. Did the bride die? I stare at the bodice of the dress and the piece of paper folded up inside it, pinned, with the words “Five Things To Do Before I Say I Do” on it.
I swallow, my mind racing, my eyes darting around the shop. I peer toward the back, looking for the shopkeeper. She’s still busy.
I’m about to say Lake’s name when he’s moving toward my side, bending. “What did you find?”
Would this even interest him? But I remember his words when I put on makeup last weekend. He’s interested in what I’m interested in.
“Look,” I say quietly. “It’s like a letter pinned to the wedding dress.”
“Open it,” he says, quick, decisive.
“Okay,” I say, needing no more permission than that. I’m dying to know what this says.
I unpin the letter, then unfold it.
And gasp. The first words are in a different handwriting from the rest of the note. They say:If you’re reading this, please treat it like the adventure this bride never got to experience.
I glance at Lake. He nods urgently, then moves closer. My breath catches as I read the list with him by my side. As promised, it’s five things this bride presumably wanted to do before her wedding. It’s dated two months ago. I read it, and it says her wedding is this summer.
My stomach falls. Sadness grips my throat.
“She must have died,” I whisper, meeting his eyes. His fill with sadness, sympathy. “Before she could do these things.”
I bring my hand to my mouth, sealing in tears, or trying to.
“It’s okay, Remy,” he says, softly, reaching for my shoulder, squeezing it.
