Now I'm the guys I made fun of back then.
The dome, an indoor practice facility. You can putt, chip, or drive. The temperature is regulated. There could be six feet of snow outside with a wind chill of negative five degrees, and the dome would be open. I keep my clubs in my trunk for this exact reason.
Today, with the snow lightly falling around me, I make my way inside, a shiver running up my spine. There's barely an inch of snow on the ground, unusual for this time of year. The weather has been fairly decent, holding in the high thirties until yesterday.
The unseasonably high temps make me wish the course was still open. It still feels wrong sometimes, playing golf indoors, but when the alternative is not playing at all, I push past it.
"Ty!" Ryder calls as I slide my card in the machine, golf balls filling the large bucket below it.
Making his way over to me, Ryder stop behind me, a bucket of balls in each hand, his bag slung over his shoulder. He's wearing a pair of khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt. He looks ready to play eighteen holes.
"Hey, man. You grab us a spot already?" I ask, sliding a second bucket under the machine and swiping my card again.
"Yeah. We're on the upper deck, slip eleven and twelve."
"Great," I reply, pushing my clubs high on my shoulder and reaching for the buckets.
"You good?"
He already knows the answer to that, so I'm not sure why he's asking. Ryder's always been a perceptive guy, especially when it comes to me. I don't know how he does it, but he can read me like an open book, even when I try to hide shit from him. Actually, especially when I try to hide shit. It's annoying as fuck.
"Yeah, fine."
"Says the man who looks like he might need a third bucket of balls."
Only two years younger than me, Ryder and I have always been close. There was a strict hierarchy among the three of us.
Hunter was the leader. He set the example. Always a great kid, he kept his nose clean and followed the rules. His teachers loved him. His friends worshiped him. He was popular for all the reasons someone normally wouldn't be popular in high school.
Then there was me. I was the one who tested my parents. Not really a problem child, I still maintained good grades and never got involved in anything dangerous or immoral, but I pushed my boundaries. I needed to know how far they stretched.
I was a popular kid myself, but not for the reason's Hunter was. We were complete opposites back then. In some ways we still are. He knew everyone because he was involved in student government and wrote for the school paper. Everyone knew me because I played sports and dated cheerleaders.
Then there was Ryder. He was the baby of the family. He's more like Hunter but, for some odd reason, looked up to me. He learned from my mistakes, knew the boundaries our parents set, and stayed within the parameters. Not as goody-goody as Hunter but not the bad-boy I pretended to be.
People flocked to Ryder. He was the most charismatic of the three of us. Sometimes I think he might still be.
There was one thing everyone knew about us, though. We were brothers, and if you messed with one of us, you messed with all of us. Hence why no one messed with any of us.
"Let's just say, I'm not loving the changes around the office," I mutter as I drop both buckets at my feet, letting my bag slide off my shoulder.
"She's not that bad. At least she's nice and trying to figure it out."
Ryder sets himself up, reaching for his driver and smacking his first ball before I can reply. Damn, that went close to three hundred yards. The bastard’s been practicing without me.
"I know she'll pick it up but, damn, can that day come soon please? I'm not getting anything done because I'm helping her all the time, and it's annoying the hell out of me," I reply.
Smack!
Seriously? Not even two hundred yards. I need to concentrate.
"She'll get better with time. Remember when Justine first started?"
Yes, I do. She was just as annoying as this girl, Macie.
"Yes, I remember."
"You hated her at first," Ryder comments, glancing in my direction to gauge my reaction.
I deny him the eye contact he's searching for and smack another ball. There we go, two-eighty. Better. Not great, but better.
"I never hated her."
"I'm sorry. I think the word you used was detest."
Justine took a long time to get acclimated. Like, months. Not because she's not smart. The girl could probably kick my ass at Trivial Pursuit. She started at a time when we were overwhelmed with business. There was more work than she could handle, more work than I could handle.
Ryder hadn't come aboard yet, leaving me and Hunter to handle everything. Once Ryder joined us, things settled down, but there was a period of time that I thought Justine might not make it. She cried every day. Never in front of me but I always saw the glisten in her eyes after she would come back from the restroom.
I have to give her credit. She stuck it out, and she's great at what she does now. Or rather, what she used to do. She and Emerson are off doing their own thing now. I've been thinking about asking her to spend more time with Macie.
"You used to call me and bitch every night over a beer," Ryder says.
"I remember. She was overwhelmed, overworked, and ill-prepared for the job. Look at her now."
"I know. And your new girl, what's her name?"
"Macie." With an 'ie' not a 'y,' I say to myself. She made sure to tell me that at least four times the week she started. It made me want to write her name down somewhere, with a y of course.
"Macie will catch on soon enough. Plus, with Allison being a seasoned vet, she can always help the new girls. How's Hunter's new assistant doing?"
"She seems to be catching on quicker than mine," I reply, lining up another ball and smacking it.
My rotation is off.
I dropped my shoulders.
The ball flutters a short distance off to my left and I don't bother to see how far it went.
"So what else is on your mind, man? All this can't be about work. You've had worse weeks and hit far better than you are right now."
Fuck you, Ryder.
"Is it the wedding?" he asks, his ball sailing perfectly straight out past the three-hundred marker.
Again.
Show off.
"Don't get me wrong, but things are moving pretty fast. I didn't expect you guys to get married this year, did you?"
The thought has crossed my mind a few times this week. Why this soon?
I know Ang wants a spring wedding.
The venue only had two dates.
Neither of us wanted to wait a full year to get married.
Or are we rushing things?
For no reason at all.
"I don't know, man. The venue she likes was booked solid for the next few years. They're accommodating us, which is great, but yeah, it's all creeping up pretty quick."
"Is Angela stressing out? I know her and Em have been talking a lot, planning a lot. I think they're going to look at dresses tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah. She mentioned something about looking at dresses this weekend. She's not stressing but—"
"You are."
"I'm not," I reply defensively. "It's just a lot to take in all the sudden. Living together. The idea of being engaged turning into getting married in two months. So much has changed since I proposed. All for the good, don't get me wrong. It's just a lot of changes. At home and at the office."
"I have to agree with you there. The office feels different these days. A lot of new faces—"
"Which leads to new drama," I state, cutting him off.
"What's going on now?"
"I don't know. I can feel it coming, though. It's been too quiet for too long. You and I both know the gossip mill is strong in that place."
"What could they possibly have to talk about right now?"
"Nothing, that's the problem. That's where the rumors come from. The lack of juicy things to tal
k about. It's like high school all over again sometimes."
He nods like he gets what I'm trying to say even though I'm not sure I do entirely. I know I sound like a chick bitching about her girlfriends, that's for sure. I could care less about the rumors that seem to run rampant through the office. They never pertain to me and hopefully never will.
Ryder lines up and swings again. He's switched to his 9 iron now, but he's smacking the ball just as accurately as he was with his driver.
He really pisses me off sometimes.
He has a stronger swing than I do, but put us on the course together and I'll beat him every time. My short game is my strongest piece. If all we played were par 3 holes, he wouldn't be competition at all.
Settling back into my stance, I focus on my grip, my swing, and the motion of my body. As I finish my first bucket of balls and move onto my second, I'm getting into a better rhythm. The tension in my shoulders I walked in with has dissipated, and I can feel myself mentally relaxing. Being that golf is a mental game as much as it is a physical one, I sail through my second bucket with better success.
Ryder and I part ways in the parking lot. He's heading home to Emerson, and I'm heading home to Ang. Everything feels right with the world.
My plan tonight is to calm her fears about tomorrow. Shopping for her wedding dress should be exciting for her. Judging by her comments about it this week. She's not excited to go. If I had to guess why, it would have to be because her mom and sister are going to be there. As much as she loves them, I've heard horror stories about the three of them shopping together.
Hopefully with Brianna and Emerson in tow, things will go smoothly. I thought about asking my mother to tag along to help keep the peace, but I never called her. Maybe I should. Maybe that'll ease some of the tension for Ang. Only one way to find out... I need to talk to my fiancée.
Chapter Twelve
Angela
I'm in hell. Dress shopping hell.
Whoever said it was fun to try on a million ugly white dresses was wrong.
They all look ugly on the hanger. None of them are in my size. There are beads and lace and frilly shit on every dress.
Not me.
Not my style.
Where are the plain white dresses? The ones you can slip into and feel like yourself and not a Barbie doll trying to impress the person who's supposed to love you for who you are, not what you look like.
Tyler's seen me in nothing at all.
He's seen me sick as a dog, with snot dripping out of my nose, eyes puffy from sneezing.
He's also seen me on the rare occasion I dress up. Hair down, ironed straight or in loose curls, makeup perfectly polished. Skinny jeans or maybe a dress. Heels if I'm feeling daring and probably not drinking.
If there's a side to me, good, bad, or ugly, Ty's seen it.
So why do brides go through all the trouble of finding the 'perfect' dress to wear it for a few hours, let their husbands rip it off, have it dry cleaned and then packed nicely in a box for the next twenty years.
I don't get it.
Emerson does, though. And with her as my maid of honor, today is never going to end.
To be honest, the idea of shopping for a gown excited me. Even this morning, as I sipped my coffee while Emerson went over our plan of attack, I was on board with everything for today.
My excitement died after the fifth dress.
That was so many dresses ago I stopped counting.
This is our third store. The third person who's brought me hideous dresses to try on. The third set of mirrors to stand in front of only to be disappointed in the way I look.
Not that I can really tell if the dress would look good with the clamps holding it closed.
That's something I'll never understand. Brides try on dozens of dresses in sizes too big for them and somehow are able to make a decision on what will actually look good on them. And it's supposed to be an instant reaction, like they just know it's the perfect dress.
"I like that one," Emerson says as I turn around for the second time.
It's not bad, far from ugly, but it's not great either.
White. Long. Strapless. A little bit of lace around my mid-section and at the end of the train. There are fake jewels around my boobs, lining the cut of the dress. They press against my skin. It only bothers me under my arms.
I've tried on far worse. I think my least favorite was the mermaid cut dress I stepped out of a few minutes ago. I couldn't walk. The dress was strangling my lower half. I actually imagined myself falling down the aisle and taking my father down with me.
"Say something," she says when I don't answer her.
"It's not the one, Em. I don't know what's wrong with me. All these dresses look like shit on me. Am I that awkward or something?"
I want to tell her I'm done for the day. I want to throw in the towel, go home to my future husband, and ask him if he has a problem with me walking down the aisle in yoga pants and a tank top.
"It's not you, Ang." Em walks toward me and adjusts the dress a little, pulling it up higher in the front when she notices I'm showing more cleavage than I knew I had to begin with. "We might not find the dress today. We might not find it tomorrow, but we will find it. I promise. And when we do, you'll know it's the perfect one."
Letting out a sigh, I turn to head back into the dressing room when I hear my mom call my name.
Oh yeah. As if shopping for a wedding dress wasn't horrible to begin with, my mom and sister decided to join us. My sister's still pissed at Ty for what he said at Thanksgiving so being around her has been nothing short of irritating. My mother's been more judgmental about the dresses than I have.
Screw going home. What I really need is a drink, or ten, to drown my sorrows after all this is over.
"Try this one on," my mother insists, thrusting a long, ivory dress in my hands.
"It's not white, Mom."
"Angela Anne Walker. You think I don't know you've been sleeping with Tyler since you met him? White is a pure color. I'm not saying you can't wear it, but don't count out ivory, or cream, or that champagne color you refuse to try on. Plus, with your skin tone, this will look nice on you. So, go try it on. Please."
Please?
That's what she said but what I heard was "NOW!"
She's frustrated. I'm frustrated. If I say something, she might blow a gasket. I realize she's trying to be helpful, and I'm being rude and ungrateful, but that doesn't stop me from rolling my eyes at her comments as soon as I turn my back to her.
"Don't you roll your eyes at me, young lady."
How in the hell did she see that? The door was practically closed.
Emerson slips in behind me, chuckling under her breath, the traitor. She removes the clamps and helps me step out of the dress I'm currently wearing and into the one my mother picked for me.
Smooth satin glides down my body as Em guides the dress over my head.
"Hands up," Em states, holding the dress while I shift underneath.
Moving the dress so I can get my hands through the straps, Em finally pulls it down and gasps.
Thick bands of satin material cover my shoulder, moving down over my chest and meet in a deep V. The dress has a high waist, and a band of the same satin material wraps around the dress, making a defining statement.
The bottom of the dress brushed the floor in the front and stretches a few feet in the back, the small train of fabric enough to create the perfect illusion.
The back mirrors the front, dipping into a deep v that ends at the waistband, exposing the curve of my back and my shoulder blades. A little bit of skin but not too much.
"Oh, Ang," Emerson exclaims from behind me.
"What's taking so long?" Jill screams.
"Come out here, Angela. It can't be that bad."
It's not bad. Not at all. My mother was right, not that I'll be admitting that anytime soon. The ivory color looks great against my paler skin tone. The cut of the dress is perfect for my body type.
> It's comfortable.
It's simple.
It's me.
This is my perfect dress. This is my wedding dress.
"What do you think?" Em asks when I reach to open the door.
"I think I found my dress," I reply, holding back the tears that are forming in my eyes.
"I think so too," she agrees, wrapping me in a hug.
My mother shouting her impatience kills the happy mood. That is, until I open the door and she begins crying. Jill isn't far behind her, her anger melting when our eyes meet. For the first time today, I see happiness in her eyes.
Without second guessing it, I wave the sales assistant over and ask her to bag the dress up. I want to take it home. I'm done looking. No more trying on hideous dresses. No more doubting that I even want to wear one.
I've found my dress and when the bell rings, announcing to the other customers that I've apparently ‘said yes to the dress,’ I almost burst into tears, happy for this part of the adventure to be over.
There's still a ton of things to do.
And as I'm swiping my credit card at the register, my dress hidden beneath a black canvas bag slung over my arm, I realize how fast things are moving. And the fact that I may have missed a few steps in the process, my excitement getting the best of me.
"Where to?" Em asks as she starts the car.
"Your place I guess. Can I leave the dress at your house? I don't want Ty peeking at it."
"Of course."
Em and I talk strategy the entire way. I've found the venue, the dress, and I don't have to worry about catering. My next step is to hire a DJ and a photographer. Both things I can do in the next few weeks hopefully. Then all the small details need to be settled on.
Waving goodbye to Em, I immediately text Ty.
ME: Gotta talk to you. You home?
TY: Making dinner. What's wrong?
ME: Nothing. See you in a few.
TY: Are you sure nothing’s wrong?
ME: Promise. It's nothing big.
Rumors: Angela & Tyler Page 8
