For the Love of Friends

by Confino, Sara Goodman

  Amy ignored me. “And two separate weekends for the shower and bachelorette party? I was going to try to go, but we already went to Mexico for them.”

  “That one didn’t sound like any great hardship.”

  “Lily, I work at Lululemon and Tyler has a job offer, but he’s still in school now. I don’t have as much money as you do.”

  I started to say something snarky about living off our parents, but I stopped myself. Amy was on my side here.

  “Ha. You think I have money right now? Do you know how much the dress for my friend Caryn’s wedding cost?”

  “How much?”

  “Five eighty-five.”

  “Shit. Is it cute at least?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does she secretly hate you?”

  I smiled. “I don’t think so. She just lives on a different planet than we do sometimes.”

  “I know you don’t like the one I picked, but I tried to keep it in a reasonable price range at least.”

  I had no idea she had paid attention to that. “Thank you.” I didn’t deny hating the dress, but I could concede that it might look sweet on someone nearly a decade younger than me. “So when do you want to go try on the dresses?”

  “I could go tomorrow morning.”

  “I work a nine-to-five.”

  “Every day?” I rolled my eyes. She had never held an office job. “Gross. Okay, what about Thursday night?”

  “You’re on.”

  I typed out a reply to Madison, thanking her for keeping us in the loop and complimenting her dress. I added that I would start looking at flights and see what was doable for her shower as well. I hit “Send,” hoping that my tone was conciliatory enough to make that situation less awkward.

  Today was a good day, I thought, leaning back in my chair.

  “Lil, did you ever finish updating the website with the HAWC write-up?” Caryn was at my door, a stack of papers in her hand.

  “Ugh. No. I’ll do that now.” I glanced at the calendar on my wall. Just six more months until all of this was over and I could go back to having an actual life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When I arrived at the bridal salon on Thursday night, Amy was already there. With our mother.

  “I didn’t realize you were coming,” I said as she kissed my cheek.

  “Amy invited me.”

  I gave Amy an annoyed look and mouthed, “Why?” Amy shrugged. I did not need a repeat of the “why this dress would look good on someone who isn’t Lily” game today. But wasn’t this whole endeavor pointless anyway? Neither Amy nor I were going to say we hated the dress and make Madison pick a different one, so what did it matter how it fit us?

  “What are you going to wear, Mom?” Amy called from the dressing room. The store only had one of the dresses, so we were taking turns trying it on.

  “To which wedding?”

  “Jake’s. I thought I’d go with you to shop for yours for mine.”

  “Why don’t you come with me for both?”

  “Ooh okay, fun!” She emerged from the dressing room in the yellow chiffon and did a little twirl. “I don’t hate it.” She studied her reflection in the mirror and bit her lip. “I don’t love it, but it’s fine.”

  I looked at her critically, studying how the dress fit her. We were built similarly, but Amy was a little thinner these days. She had been a chubby teenager and worked really hard to maintain her current weight. But the dress was flowy without bulk and looked like it would be cool in the Mexican heat and forgiving of problem areas without necessitating Spanx. And even more thankfully, it had wide straps, so I could wear a normal bra. The color even looked good on Amy, with the remnants of her tan from Mexico.

  “It looks good, Ames.”

  My mother was biting her lip in an unconscious imitation of Amy’s face. “You don’t like it?” Amy asked her.

  “Who are her other bridesmaids?” my mom asked.

  “She said it was her sister, her cousin, and a friend?”

  “Are they bigger girls?”

  I looked at her in alarm. “What?”

  My mother ignored me. “It’s just such a shame to hide your figure in something like that. Especially when you’ve worked so hard.”

  “I know. But it’s not my wedding. It’ll be fine.” Mom looked unsure. Amy shrugged at me, then handed me her phone and struck a pose. “Take a picture so we can send it to Madison?”

  I did, internally girding my loins for the jellyfish of a comment that was about to come my way when I put on the same forgiving dress. Amy retreated to the dressing room and emerged a couple minutes later in her jeans. “Tag, you’re it.”

  Whatever they were discussing while I was in the fitting room was said too quietly for me to hear more than a murmur of voices. I pulled off my shirt and pants and put on the dress.

  I stepped back to get as full a view as I could in the fitting-room mirror. It actually wasn’t bad. Yes, the color was frightful on me, but the fit was somewhat flattering. Would I choose this dress on my own, even in a different color? No. But it was the first one any bride had picked that didn’t make me feel overly self-conscious. I smiled faintly at my reflection. Yes, I would be the much older spinster sister at my brother’s fabulous destination wedding in a color that didn’t suit me at all. But I would still look pretty good doing it. And even my mother couldn’t find a flaw with that. Actually, scratch that. This was my mother we were talking about.

  I took a deep breath and stepped out into the shop.

  My mother and Amy both tilted their heads to the same degree at the same time. Amy needs to get out of that house, I thought. Like right now.

  “You look great!” Amy said.

  My mother smiled gently. “You look lovely, Lily.” I waited for the “but,” and she did not disappoint. “I just wish Madison could have picked something that would look good on both of you.”

  Amy’s shoulders sank. I gave my mother a murderous look, which she missed because she was looking at the dress, not my face. “It was good on Amy too, Mom.”

  “Everything looks good on Amy, of course,” she said absently. “But it does nothing to show off her waist, and her waist is so small. It makes hers look the same size as yours.”

  My teeth clenched involuntarily. “And I’m clearly the size of a hippopotamus, so that’s a problem.”

  “Don’t take that tone,” she said. “You’re just a bigger girl than Amy.”

  I was two inches taller than her and maybe twenty pounds heavier soaking wet.

  I wanted to tell her that she was ridiculously unfair, and it had taken me a good thirty of my thirty-two years on this earth to get past the body image issues that she had instilled in me. I wanted to tell her that I liked how I looked, so whatever she thought was irrelevant. I wanted to tell her that, by her standards, nothing would look good on both me and Amy. And I most definitely wanted to tell her to go to hell.

  But you can’t do that with your mom, can you? Somehow, all of those things that you want to say, that maybe you should say, just don’t have the courage to come out of your mouth. Because it’s different when it’s your mom. Whatever she says cuts deeper, scars worse, and makes you feel like maybe it’s actually true, even when you know it’s not.

  Instead, I counted to ten and bit my tongue.

  Not that she noticed any of my internal struggle. In fact, she was talking to the saleswoman about whether there was any way to belt Amy’s dress to make it more flattering.

  Now that? That I could say something about.

  “Mom, you can’t change the dress from how Madison wants it.”

  She looked at me, her eyebrows raised. “None of the girls have ordered the dresses yet. So she should at least see it with a belt and see how much better it looks.”

  Amy’s eyes were wide. She at least understood the magnitude of the faux pas my mother was committing. And even though I really didn’t know her, I felt bad for Madison. Amy was the golden child and had it easier than
I did, but Madison clearly hadn’t grown up with a mother who didn’t have boundaries. She had no clue what kind of storm was about to hit her in the form of Hurricane Joan.

  I exhaled audibly. “Nope. I’m calling a foul here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t be that mother-in-law.”

  Her hands were on her hips. “I’m going to be a wonderful mother-in-law. Madison is lucky to have someone to make sure everything looks its best.”

  I glanced back at Amy. This is why you don’t invite her to stuff like this, I thought. “Mom, you have Amy’s wedding to do this kind of thing. Madison gets to call the shots here. You’re not in charge at this one.”

  “Of course I’m not in charge, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion—”

  “Yes, it does. It means exactly that. Your job is to show up in a neutral-colored dress, tell Jake and Madison that you love them, and then keep your mouth closed.”

  Her brows came together murderously and she pointed a finger at me, which, no matter how old I got, made me feel like I was about to face major consequences for whatever infraction I had just committed. “Now you listen—”

  “How did you feel when Nana told you what to do?” I asked, cutting her off. Her mouth was open like she was going to say something, but she lowered her finger.

  “I’m nothing like Nana,” she said. “That woman was a nightmare.”

  “Madison is shy and isn’t going to argue with you. But this is her wedding and if you tell her how the bridesmaids should be dressed, she’ll probably say okay. Then she’s going to resent you. Is that what you want?”

  “Why would she resent me?”

  I dug desperately for an argument that would sway her and, thankfully, a light bulb went off in my head. “Remember that New York Times article? The one about how paternal grandparents aren’t usually as close with their grandkids because of friction in the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship?”

  Her eyes narrowed. She had shared it on Facebook when the article first came out and emailed it to the three of us, telling Jake that he had better marry someone who would love her.

  “It was true, wasn’t it? We were always closer with Grandma than with Nana. And it’s already going to be hard when they have kids because Jake and Madison don’t live here and her parents are there. Do you really want to make it even more likely that you don’t get to see their kids as much?”

  She looked to Amy. “Do you agree with this?”

  Amy’s hand was at her mouth and she was chewing on her cuticles. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Fine,” my mother said, throwing up her hands in defeat. “Don’t ever let anyone say I don’t listen. Amy, stop biting your nails.” Amy dropped her hand guiltily.

  “So no belts then?” the saleswoman asked.

  “No,” I said firmly. “I’m going to go take this off. Amy, can you tell Madison it’s great?”

  “Wait,” Amy said. “Let me get a picture of you in it.”

  I turned to face her and tried to look less annoyed than I was, then returned to the dressing room to put my work clothes back on. I was starving and, the adrenaline of the confrontation gone, exhausted.

  #Obsessed came the text from my sister to both me and Madison, with pictures of the two of us in the dress. Love love love it! I didn’t even have Madison’s phone number, but apparently Amy was in touch with her. And sensitive enough to lie about her reaction to the dress.

  I looked at the pictures. Amy was radiant, her arm thrown over her head in a rapturous pose. I looked constipated, my arms at my sides, jaw clenched, a forced, fake smile on my lips that came nowhere near my eyes. Shit.

  Are you sure? A reply came in from the number that had to be Madison’s. Lily?

  I pulled my shirt over my head, then typed out a reply. It’s great. Honest. I only look annoyed in the pic because I was fighting with our mom. It’s my favorite of the bridesmaid dresses I have so far. I realized that was an unintentional dig at Amy as soon as I said it, but I was too annoyed to care.

  Fighting about the dress?

  No, I lied firmly at the same time that Amy replied, Yes.

  I rubbed my forehead. She meant yes, we’re sure we love the dress. No, I was fighting with my mom about something else.

  “Amy, don’t you say a word,” I said as I came out of the dressing room.

  She gave me a wounded look and my mother looked up in shock. “I didn’t—”

  “I’m going home. I worked all day. I’ll talk to you both later.” I stopped at the front of the store, where the saleswoman was behind the desk. “Can I call to order when I get the go-ahead from my brother’s fiancée?” She told me that was fine, and I left without a backward glance.

  “What’s her problem?” I heard my mother asking Amy before the door shut behind me.

  I felt my phone vibrate with a text message as I slid behind the wheel of my car. “Amy, I swear to God,” I said out loud.

  But it wasn’t Amy; it was Alex. Whatcha up to?

  We had been texting fairly steadily since our lunch. It didn’t have the all-day, everyday urgency of a budding relationship—more like the comfortable give-and-take of a friend with whom you never quite ended the conversation. I couldn’t remember if I had told him I was going dress shopping tonight or not.

  Attempting matricide. You?

  As your lawyer, I’m going to have to advise you to refrain from texting me details of that if I’m to defend you in court.

  No juror would side against me. They might even give me a medal.

  In that case, let me know if you need help getting rid of the body. If I learned anything from Breaking Bad, it was to not dissolve a body in a bathtub.

  I chuckled. Good to know.

  The three dots appeared, then disappeared, and then reappeared. You wanna grab a drink?

  There was no hesitation. I would love to grab a drink. Someplace with food preferably. I’m starving.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sharon called me the night before I was due to go bridesmaid dress shopping with her, her sister, her future sister-in-law, and her mother.

  “We still on for tomorrow?” I asked. I was on my sofa, painting my nails—manicures were another casualty in the bridesmaid budget. And I still remembered Mrs. Meyer’s horrified reaction to my chewed-up nails in college. If I used part of a cotton ball on a cuticle stick in acetone, I could probably clean them up enough to meet her standards—or at least to fly under her radar.

  “Yeah, but . . .” she trailed off.

  “But what?”

  “I kind of need you to do me a favor.”

  “No problem. What’s up?”

  She paused. “I don’t want you to wear black at my wedding.”

  “That’s fine. I’m wearing purple, pink, and Big Bird–yellow for three of the others. Whatever you want me to wear will be great.”

  Another pause. “No—I mean—can you tell my mom you don’t want to wear black?”

  This time I hesitated. “Why can’t you tell her that?”

  Sharon sighed. “I did, but she just has this idea in her head of what it should look like, and she can’t hear me. So will you do it?”

  I groaned internally. The absolute last thing I wanted to do was pick a fight with Sharon’s mom. But the only reason Sharon was having this wedding was her mother. If she needed a champion to make sure some part of it was hers, I supposed that responsibility fell to me. Her sister, the maid of honor, certainly wasn’t going to do it. I had never gotten a solid read on Bethany. Was she actually her mother’s little clone, agreeing with her every whim? Or was she doing what Sharon did and complying to survive? Or had it started as the latter and simply become the former? It wasn’t the kind of thing you could ask someone about her sister and overbearing mother.

  “Please?” she asked, when I hadn’t responded.

  “Okay. Is there any particular color you do want? If I’m going to die on the cross here, I want to make sure it
’s not in vain.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want it to look like a funeral. Other than that, I don’t really care.”

  “What if she wants to downgrade to navy?”

  “Navy? I feel like that’s just as bad.”

  “So something light?”

  “Well not white, obviously. But something—I don’t know—happy?”

  I wondered briefly if I could convince her to pick one of the three dresses I already had. Now that would be a victory, I thought. Then I shook my head to remove the disloyal thought. Sharon deserved her own dream wedding. Not her mother’s, and certainly not my half-assed attempts to be able to afford a proper manicure again.

  I grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured myself a glass after hanging up the phone. Then I looked down at my stomach. Becca walked in as I was attempting to pour the wine back into the bottle.

  “Um . . . what?” she asked.

  I looked up guiltily. “Do we have a funnel?”

  “Why would we have a funnel?” I gestured toward the mess I was making with the wine. “You could just—I don’t know—drink it?”

  “I need my wits about me for tomorrow morning. And wine has calories.” I looked at her. “Why are you so dressed up?”

  She shot me a huge grin. “I have a date tonight.”

  “With who?”

  “Will.”

  “Should I know who that is?”

  Becca rolled her eyes. “You know, Will Will.”

  “From work?”

  “The one and only.”

  I raised my eyebrows, impressed. Becca had had a crush on him for forever, which she had all but given up on because he never seemed to show any reciprocal interest. “How’d you swing that one?”

  “I have no idea,” she said giddily. “We were just talking this afternoon, and he looked at me and asked if I wanted to have dinner with him tonight.”

  A little voice in my head wondered if she had misunderstood and it was more like a grabbing-drinks-with-Alex kind of thing, but I told it to shut up. If anyone was due for a little happiness, it was Becca, who hadn’t been on a date in the two years we had been living together and probably a while before that. She had been living with her last boyfriend until she caught him cheating on her. She hadn’t quite recovered from that one yet.