Oh god, now I feel horrible.
“Wait!” I say, hurrying back over to the bridal section. I grab the simple, sophisticated gown I’d passed over before, and hand it to Cara. “I think you might like this one more.”
She looks down at it, her eyebrows rising, then back at me. I offer her a little shrug in silent apology.
A few moments later, she emerges from the dressing room—looking absolutely stunning.
The cream silk of the gown sets against Cara’s skin beautifully, and her strawberry leaf pendant hanging at her throat complements the dress like they were made for each other. And if I squint, I can’t even see the anchor tattoo on her shoulder.
Cara smiles at herself in the mirror, her hands grazing along thelace at her hips as she turns slowly from side to side, taking in the perfection of the dress from every angle.
“That’s the one,” Mom whispers.
Cara nods, and in the mirror’s reflection, I think I see tears forming in her eyes.
WE PURCHASE THE DRESSand make plans for Cara to come back in a few days for some minor alterations. Mom, Linney, and Cara decide to head next door to the homewares store to look for tablecloths and napkins—more wedding errands to cross off the list. I tell them to go ahead, offering to stay behind and help Beau put everything away.
Once they disappear around the corner, I wander past racks of gowns, fingering fabrics, my eyes drifting back to a sweet strapless dress I had noticed earlier, with a fine pattern of floral lace making a low V in the front. I glance at Beau, who’s been going back and forth from the back room to restock some displays, before slipping the dress from the rack. I hustle into the dressing room, my stomach fluttering, and close the door behind me.
It takes a minute to sort out the sea of creamy white fabric and step into it, but when I finish with the zipper and turn to the mirror, I actually gasp. The dress fits like it was made for me. The fabric hugs in all the right places, the cut perfectly flattering, the neckline plunging in a way that looks elegant, not overdone.
An unexpected lump forms in my throat. Cooper getting married first is hitting harder than I expected. I had plans for this, a timeline for how things were supposed to go in my life, and now it’s all scrambled. Will I ever get a chance to wear something like this for real?
My chest tightens with that ache of lost expectation, but I shake itoff. It’s time to stop playing dress-up. I reach for the zipper. It won’t budge. I tug again. Nothing. My heart starts racing. “Oh no, oh no…” I mutter, hopping from one foot to the other, yanking carefully, then not-so-carefully, willing it to move. I wiggle, twist, pray. Should I call out to Beau and see if he can hear me from the back room?
“Nikki?” A voice floats down the aisle, but it’s not Beau… it’s Nate.
For a second, I’m frozen with sheer panic. I can’t let him see me in this thing! But then the opposite thought—I need help. I need him.
“In here!” I call back, hopping once more. I open the stall door just enough to poke my head out, and gesture him toward me frantically.
He slips inside the dressing room, and I catch his eyes widening the second he sees what I’m wearing.
“Wow… you look amazing,” he says, and my stomach flips.
“Thanks.” My voice comes out breathy.
“But, uh…” He seems at a loss for words for a moment, then swallows. “I’m not sure anyone’s told you this, but you’re kinda not supposed to wear white to someone else’s wedding.”
I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half quiet wail, and swat him on the shoulder. My hand lingers on his chest, can feel his pecs harden beneath his shirt at my touch. “Nate. I do not need to be teased right now. I’m actually… kind of stuck,” I admit, gesturing helplessly at the zipper.
He eyes me up and down, and I can feel his gaze on every inch of me, every spot where the dress wraps itself so close to my body. “I can understand how you got stuck in this thing. But what are you doing in a wedding dress in the first place?”
Now it’s my turn to look away, removing my hand from his chest. My glance falls to the mirror—where I catch his eyes again in the reflection. “I was just…” I shrug. “Curious.”
“Ah.” He nods once, glances away, swallows again. “Curious.”
“So, um… I kind of need… I need you to…”
“To Shawshank you out of this dress?”
I laugh. “Precisely. But hopefully with less damage.”
He laughs softly. “I’ll do my best.” Then I hear his breathing become slow and a little unsteady as he gently gathers my hair off of my neck and places it over my shoulder, his fingers grazing the bare skin exposed by the top of the dress. His movements are so careful, so tender, it takes my own breath away. Then he fumbles at my back, and I hear another quick intake of breath as the zipper loosens and slowly draws open halfway down my back. Then—it’s stuck again, lower down, and he kneels, leans in, and carefully works the zipper free, his hands confident, much steadier than his breathing, as he slowly slides the zipper the rest of the way down, tooth by tooth, until the dress is open all the way to the base of my spine, where the top of my thong is probably showing. A shiver of goose bumps runs down my back, and I can feel his breath against my bare skin. I’m still clutching the front of the dress to me, as if for dear life. I feel like I might melt into a puddle if I let go.
“Got it. You’re free,” he says.
I let out a relieved, shuddery little laugh, and he grins into the mirror.
