by T. K. Leigh
Judy heads toward the back of the showroom, pulling back one of the half-dozen dark curtains that hang in sections along the rear wall, revealing an intimate fitting room. An ornate divan and a few chairs make up a sitting area in the center, a pedestal placed in front of the large three-way mirrors a few feet away. In the corner is another curtain, which I assume leads to a private dressing room for the bride-to-be. Every wall is lined with racks full of white dresses. And not simple dresses, either, as I have a feeling Brooklyn prefers. These are the quintessential Cinderella-style gowns, complete with more tulle, sequins, and feathers than any dress should have. The extravagance makes me itchy, and I rub the back of my neck. If I feel this way, I can’t imagine what’s going through Brooklyn’s mind right now.
“Mrs. Bradford arranged these in order of preference,” Judy explains as she scurries toward the rack closest to the mirrors and grabs the first few dresses, hanging them in the fitting room. She looks back at us, waiting for one of us to react. When we both remain locked in place, uncomfortable expressions on our faces as we stare at all the white, she grits a fake smile. “I’ll let you get settled and will be back to check on you in a few minutes.” Then she heads away, bringing the cloud of perfume surrounding her.
The instant we’re alone, Brooklyn’s entire body relaxes and she blows out a long breath, assessing the scene in front of us. She lifts her eyes to mine, giving me a small smile. “Well, if I’m going to have time to try on these dresses before you need to pick up the girls from school, I better get moving.” I can’t help but notice the slight quiver in her voice.
When she starts toward the dressing room, I grab her arm, forcing her to face me. Her eyes widen in surprise. I’m not sure if it’s from my hand on her skin or from her abrupt stop. I wonder if she feels what I do whenever our bodies touch, this unrelenting electricity burning so hot, nothing can put it out.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, placing my hands on her biceps. Her skin is soft, smooth, perfect. “You don’t have to try on a bunch of dresses the Brooklyn I know wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. This is your wedding. You deserve to have whatever dress you want. Not some ridiculous garment your future mother-in-law dictates.”
“I can’t afford anything here,” she whispers. “I can’t afford a dress at all. Not on my salary. If I had a few years to save up like I thought I’d have, it wouldn’t be a problem. But since I got railroaded into agreeing to a June wedding, I don’t have a choice but to pick a dress Lydia likes.” She steps away and I drop my hands with a sigh.
I hate everything about this, but I don’t know what else to do. I’d love to offer to pay for whatever dress she wants, but she’d see it for more than it is. Brooklyn and I seem to be treading dangerous waters these days. I don’t want to add to the tension.
“It doesn’t matter what the dress looks like on the hanger,” I assure her when she’s about to disappear into the dressing room. It’s a bold move, but I can’t help myself. The way every inch of her seems to be devoid of life makes me not care. She needs to know how amazing she is. “You’ll make it beautiful. You make everything you wear beautiful.”
She glances over her shoulder, her lips curving up slightly. “As much as I should tell you not to say things like that, it’s nice to know someone thinks I’m beautiful.” The large velvet curtain closes behind her, her words ringing in the air.
I’m on the verge of asking what she means by that, why Wes doesn’t tell her she’s beautiful every day, every minute, every second, but decide against it. This is already difficult enough on her, on both of us. The last thing I need is to make it worse. Now, more than ever, Brooklyn needs my support, to smile and laugh. If my dad were still alive, he’d tell me as much.
“Hey, Brooklyn?” I call out.
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t cannibals eat clowns?”
Her laugh fills the room, the sweet melody as refreshing as hearing birds chirping on that first warm day after a long winter. “I don’t know, Drew. Why don’t cannibals eat clowns?”
I pause, remembering my father’s assertion that the art to telling jokes is in the delivery.
“You don’t want to blow your wad too early, Drew,” he would say in his thick Boston accent. “Get to the punchline too soon and you’ll waste the opportunity to make someone smile. There’s no greater feeling in the world than seeing someone’s entire disposition brighten and know you’re the reason for it. Never forget that. Anyone can buy flowers or jewelry, but making someone happy by words alone… There’s no greater gift.”
A warmth fills me as my father’s voice sounds as clear as day in my head. It’s like he’s here with me, standing over my shoulder, encouraging me. I wonder what he would think about this situation, if he would approve of Brooklyn’s marriage to Wes. If he would want me to tell her the truth of that summer. When he was still alive, he was like a second father to her. Would he side with Gigi, as he was prone to do? I’ll never know.
Refocusing my attention on the curtain, I imagine Brooklyn standing in front of the mirror, holding whatever monstrosity of a dress she’s trying on first, uncertainty in her expression. “Because they taste funny.”
It doesn’t matter that my view of her is blocked, I can feel Brooklyn’s smile fill the room. “Good one. Your father would be proud. You used to hate his jokes.”
“Perhaps.” I shrug. “Maybe I never appreciated their purpose.” I lower my voice, my tone becoming sincere. “I do now.”
Silence settles between us once more, but this time, it’s even more pronounced. The space isn’t just devoid of conversation. There’s no more rustling of fabric as she tries on the dress she’s supposed to wear on the happiest day of her life. The only sound is dull background chatter coming from the reception area.
“Hey, Drew?” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Can you tell me another joke?”
“Anything for you.” With a smile, I wrack my brain for yet another one of my father’s notorious jokes the regulars of the café flocked to hear, regardless of the fact they heard them all before. “How do you make a tissue dance?”
“I don’t know. How do you make a tissue dance?”
“You put a little boogie in it.”
She laughs again, this time with less life, more sadness, as if she’s barely keeping it together. After a moment, she blows out a heavy sigh. “Okay. Here goes nothing. You ready to see?”
“I’m on pins and needles.”
“Promise not to laugh?”
“I’d never laugh at you.”
“Okay.”
The curtain pulls back and Brooklyn steps out, wearing an extravagant white gown. It has a sweetheart neckline, the sleeves set off her shoulders. The satin fabric hugs her curves, then flares out at her hips into a flowing skirt, complete with a long train. Jewels dot the dress, picking up the light every time she takes a step, making her look like a princess out of a fairy tale. It’s stunning, a dress many women would fawn over, but from how stiff she’s walking, it’s obvious she’s uncomfortable. She doesn’t give off the appearance of a woman overjoyed to be trying on a wedding dress. Her expression is more of a woman being led to the gallows in a pair of handcuffs.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” She scrunches her nose, looking down at it.
“You look beautiful, Brook,” I assure her. “And I’m sure you’ll look beautiful in every single one of these dresses.”
“But…” She lifts a brow, sensing there’s more.
“But you’re not glowing.”
“Am I supposed to glow? It’s only a dress I’ll wear for a few hours of my life.”
“True, but shouldn’t they be the most important few hours?”
She looks away, shrugging.
“Close your eyes, Brook.”
She shifts her gaze back to me, skeptical.
“Come on. Humor me for a minute.”
“You’re not going to do anything stupid are you?” She places
her hands on her hips, tilting her head to one side. “I seem to remember when we were kids, you used to tell me to close my eyes, making me think you had a surprise for me. Instead, you’d put mud down my shirt.”
A lightness fills my chest at the memory. “It was my lame attempt at flirting with you.”
“When you were ten?”
“Close your eyes, please,” I beg. Now isn’t the time to rehash the past. “Today is about you finding your perfect dress. I’m trying to help.”
“And you think you can do that by asking me to close my eyes?”
“I do.” I smirk.
She bites her lower lip, trying to fight a smile, then sighs, obviously curious as to what I have in mind. This can go either way. I half expect her to run from me again, as she has the past few times we’ve seen each other. But if she’s serious about marrying Wes, she deserves to have the wedding of her dreams, including the wedding dress of her dreams.
She closes her eyes and inhales a deep breath. “Okay. Now what?”
I raise myself from the chair I’ve been sitting in and make my way toward her. As I near, the scent of lavender becomes stronger, bringing forward so many happy memories. I can’t remember a time when she didn’t smell like this. Lavender, honey, and baby powder. That’s Brooklyn. All sweet and fresh.
“Do you remember when we were kids and Molly forced us to have a fake wedding?” I murmur, convinced the beat of my heart is deafening in the small space.
She swallows hard, lifting her chin. Her chest rises and falls in a quicker pattern, a blush blooming on her fair skin. Brooklyn’s never been one to wear much makeup, and she doesn’t need it. Her complexion has a natural glow to it, and the pink on her cheeks makes her even more stunning than I thought possible.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember walking down the makeshift aisle in our back yard that led to the gazebo?”
“I do,” she responds, breathy.
“And do you remember holding a bouquet of flowers and weeds Molly picked for you, which we later realized contained poison ivy and you broke out in a horrible rash?”
Her laughter fills the space, the sound comforting to my soul. To see her this at ease reminds me of when we were kids and had our lives before us. When we didn’t have a care in the world. When we thought things would always stay the same.
“I doubt I’ll ever forget that.”
I allow the light atmosphere to linger for a moment before asking my next question. My eyes trained on her, I continue toward her. The electricity in the room builds with each step I take. She feels it, too, her lips parting, her skin becoming more flushed.
“Do you remember what you were wearing?”
She nods, her voice low and even. “We found an old apron and tied it around my waist. Then we added long streams of toilet paper to it, after wrapping my chest and stomach in it. Your dad was furious we wasted all that toilet paper.”
“He certainly was.” I come to a stop in front of her. “And you’re correct. That was what you were wearing. But in your mind, when you walked down the aisle with the most exquisite smile on your face I’ve ever seen, what did you imagine you were wearing?”
Her shoulders relax and a peacefulness washes over her. For a minute, she’s no longer standing in the dressing room of an upscale wedding boutique on Newbury Street. She’s in our back yard, carrying a bouquet of poison ivy, walking toward me. I can feel it.
“A champagne-colored gown,” she begins. “Not pure white, but not gold, either. Somewhere in the middle. It had a floral lace overlay.” The more she speaks, the more animated her voice becomes. “The shoulders and back were bare, apart from the lace.”
I grin, knowing she must have imagined this dress more recently. These aren’t the dreams and wishes of an eight-year-old girl. They belong to the woman standing in front of me. And she deserves to have those dreams come true.
“It was fitted through the bodice and past the hips,” she continues, her hands following the line of her imaginary dress, stopping at mid-thigh. “Then it flowed out in a subtle flare.”
Happiness seems to ooze from every inch of her, making me realize I’ve hit the jackpot. When I grab her hand in mine, she’s awakened from her momentary trance, her eyes flinging open.
“That’s the dress you deserve, Brooklyn.”
“But—”
“Look at yourself.” I turn her toward the mirror, keeping my hands on her shoulders. “You’re glowing, but not because of the dress you’re wearing right now. Because of the dress you were describing. That’s the dress you should be wearing. Not this ridiculous getup.”
“I can’t,” she insists, despondent. In an instant, she’s retreated into her shell, the vivacious, excited woman she was moments ago now a distant memory. Her shoulders droop as she heads back toward the dressing room to try on the next gown her future mother-in-law picked out.
“Why?”
She faces me, exhaling loudly. “It’s not worth the eventual argument with Mrs. Bradford or Wes if I don’t choose one of her pre-approved gowns. I’m not marrying a normal guy. This family has money and social standing. The wedding of their only son needs to fit into what’s expected of them…of me. I just need to get through these next two months and make as few waves as possible. Then things can get back to normal and I can put this behind me.”
She disappears into the fitting room and closes the curtain. The rustling of tulle and whatever other material they use to make these gowns fills the room once more. At first, I didn’t want to intervene, didn’t want Brooklyn to read any more into this than necessary, but hell if I’ll stand by and let someone else dictate what’s supposed to be the happiest day of her life.
With conviction, I retreat into the showroom, scanning the space for Judy. When she sees me, she excuses herself from her discussion with a few of the other girls I assume work in the boutique.
“How’s everything going in there, Mr…?” She lifts a brow.
“Brinks,” I answer in a firm voice. “And things aren’t going well. Every single one of those dresses is completely wrong for Brooklyn. They’re not her style. She’s not a girly-girl who likes jewels and frills. Hell, I’m pretty sure she wore Converse to her senior prom.”
Judy’s dark eyes widen, her expression a mixture of surprise and disgust over the idea of someone wearing anything other than heels with a dress. “And what exactly is her style?” She rests her hands on her hips, her lip curling. “A pair of jeans and a worn t-shirt?” She scrunches her nose at my attire, making no move to hide her contempt for my choice in clothing.
“No,” I respond evenly. “She’s not a tomboy, if that’s what you think. I’ve known her most of my life, and she’s always had her own style. She’s beautiful and confident enough that she doesn’t need to make a bold statement. She’s elegant, but simple. That’s what Brooklyn needs here. A simple, elegant gown, not something that makes it look like a unicorn threw up tulle and feathers all over it. And it needs to be champagne colored.”
“Oh, no.” Judy shakes her head, everything about her giving off an air of indignation. “Mrs. Bradford specified it was to be white. Not off-white. Not ivory. Not alabaster. And certainly not champagne. White. No exceptions.”
I lean into her, having difficulty keeping my temper in check with each second I have to listen to what Mrs. Bradford wants for Brooklyn. She doesn’t deserve a say over what Brooklyn wears, regardless of how much they’re spending on this wedding, which I can only imagine is some ungodly amount.
“I don’t give a damn what Mrs. Bradford said,” I grit through clenched teeth, my eyes on fire. “I want you to find a dress in a champagne hue. But not just any dress. It needs to be her style. It should be fitted through the body and flare out slightly at mid-thigh. Preferably something with a lace overlay that exposes her shoulders and back. That’s what she wants. Find something like that, not something that distracts from how beautiful that woman is.”
Judy crosses her arms in
front of her chest. “And who will be paying? I’m not putting any dress on Mrs. Bradford’s card unless it’s one of the gowns in that room right now.”
“I’ll pay for it,” I say nonchalantly.
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “The dresses here are very expensive. These aren’t just $300 gowns from a discount bridal store. These are all designer dresses, made to order. Most of them run at least ten times that amount, if not more. I doubt—”
“I can afford it.” Reaching into my pocket, I grab my wallet, then slam my AmEx Black card on the jewelry display case beside us. “Whatever dress she wants, you can put it on that card. I don’t care the price.”
The sight of that particular card catches her attention and she reaches for it, holding it in front of her with a furrowed brow. “Andrew Brinks.” When she returns her stare to mine, she almost does a double take, as if her eyes are playing a trick. I don’t expect her to know who I am. Hockey players don’t seem to have the same notoriety as, say, professional football players do. Then again, this is Boston, a city with a reputation of worshipping its teams and the athletes who play for them. “You’re not the same Andrew Brinks who used to play hockey, are you?”
I smile, the tension shattering in an instant. “You follow hockey?”
Her entire face reddens as she chews on her bottom lip, avoiding my eyes. “My boyfriend’s a big fan. He was beside himself when you retired. He says the team hasn’t been the same since, and he’d know. He has season tickets. He’ll never believe you were in my store today.” She pauses, still seemingly bewildered. It’s been a while since anyone has recognized me outside of a hockey game. It’s nice to know I haven’t been completely forgotten. I suppose coaching, as well as the occasional commentating and endorsement gigs, has helped.
“So…” I cut through the silence. “The dress?”
“Right.” She snaps back to the present, a conniving expression crossing her face. “I think I may have something that matches your description.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink. As she’s about to retreat, she meets my eyes. “And I apologize. I never should have assumed you couldn’t afford the dress.”
