by Jen DeLuca
Those more rational thoughts still didn’t stop me from clinging to my phone like a lifeline, my heart thrilling with every text notification. But it wasn’t a problem. I kept my phone on silent and in my purse while I was at work, because my job was boring enough and the temptation would be too great. Outside work, I was discreet. I didn’t check my phone too much, and hardly anyone noticed.
At least, that’s what I thought.
At the bridal shop, while April and I waited for Emily to try on another dress, I slid my phone out of my backpack, even though it was ten thirty in the morning and I’d already read the late-night email Dex had sent the night before. The nights were for emails—longer and more introspective, sometimes a little sexy—while the daytime was for quick text messages. He hadn’t texted yet today, and while he sometimes checked in with me between shows, the weekends were his busier time, so I usually didn’t hear from him until the evening. Nothing wrong with a quick peek, though, just to make sure . . .
“Okay, that’s it.” April plucked the phone out of my hand.
“Gimme that.” I reached for it, but she leaned back in her chair, stretching her arm as far away from me as possible.
“Nope. This is an intervention.”
I scowled and crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t need an intervention. I need my phone back.” My hands already felt empty, as if I were missing a couple fingers. Tension twitched along the back of my neck. What if there was a text? What if he’d just sent me a text and it was on the screen right now, and I couldn’t see it? I wanted my phone back. I needed my phone back.
Huh. Maybe April had a point.
I huffed out a breath and adjusted the scarf around my ponytail. My hair had turned out weird today. I’d been nervous while I was getting ready, and every section I hit with the curling iron fell at the wrong angle. So I’d caught the whole thing back into a low pony and tied a filmy scarf around it, so it all looked like it had been done on purpose.
The nervous feeling had only increased when we got to the shop. Emily had picked out options, both for her and for us, and we were there to see the finalists for her wedding dress. The shop had hooked us up: we were settled in a private alcove in comfortable chairs, drinking fizzy water with lime slices while Emily fiddled around in the dressing room. Super relaxing. Except I felt like a bundle of live wires. Hence the crazy phone checking. Just knowing that Dex was out there thinking about me made me feel better. More centered.
But he wasn’t going to text me anytime soon. Saturdays were performance days, and I had more important things to think about anyway.
“Fine.” I opened my backpack and held it out to her. “Consider me reformed. No more phone, I promise.” April dropped my phone into my bag, and I cinched it shut.
“Is everything okay?” She peered at me with concern in her eyes.
“I don’t know.” I blew out a breath and looked toward the dressing room. “I haven’t felt good about any of these dresses that Em’s showing us, so I’m a little worried about . . .”
“No, I mean, is everything okay with you?” April tilted her head. “Just . . . you’re checking your phone a lot lately. I’ve noticed it at book club, and just now too. Even back on New Year’s Eve. Is something up? Something with your mom? I know she’s been sick . . .”
Maybe I hadn’t been as discreet as I thought. “No,” I said. “Mom’s fine. Everything’s fine. Just, you know, social media.” I waved a hand in what I hoped was an unconcerned gesture, pasting my bright smile back on my face. “Can’t stop checking my notifications. It’s a sickness.”
“Pfft. You kids and your Instagram.” She took a sip of her fizzy water and shot me a crooked smile and I relaxed, glad to be off the hook.
Just then, Emily came out in dress number three.
The first dress she’d showed us had made her look like a ballerina in a child’s jewelry box, and not in a good way. She’d been swallowed up by all the tulle, and the whole thing had been Too Much. The second dress had been the opposite extreme: sleek and fitted. It looked fantastic on her, but she didn’t look like a bride. She looked like someone on the way to an overly formal business meeting.
But dress number three, much like Goldilocks and Baby Bear’s chair, was Just Right.
I remembered that first day when Emily, April, and I had talked dresses. Passing Emily’s tablet back and forth over brunch, pulling up photos of ideas. The dress Emily wore now was the perfect amalgam of our thoughts that first mimosa-fueled morning. The top was halter style, fitted and embroidered with transparent sequins that caught the light perfectly. The skirt was made up of layers of tulle and lace, but she didn’t disappear into them the way she had in the first dress. This skirt poofed out just enough, falling in soft points around her legs, giving the appearance of a full-length dress without the weight of fabric or bulkiness that would normally come from so many layers. She looked perfect for an outdoor wedding at a Renaissance faire.
April obviously agreed with me. “Yes!” She surged out of her chair, still holding on to her glass of fizzy water. “Oh, yeah, kiddo. This is the one!” She paced a slow circle around her sister, and Emily’s eyebrows rose at me in a question while April was behind her.
“You think?” Her question was a response to April, but she directed the words toward me.
“Absolutely!” I said. “I love it. In fact, I’m pretty sure now that you were trolling us with those first two dresses.”
“Oh, yeah, Emily. Those other two were shit. Just shit.”
Emily barked out a laugh. “No, go ahead, April. Tell me what you really think.” She shot me a wide-eyed look, but I couldn’t back her up.
“Sorry, Em. But I agree with your sister on this one. This is obviously the winner. The other two were just awful.”
“Fine.” She threw up her hands and tried to look annoyed, but her wide smile gave her away. She ran her hands over the bodice of the dress, down to her waist, fluffing the tulle in the skirt. When she looked back up at me, her eyes were shot through with worry. “I really do like this. You think Simon will . . . ?”
“Simon’s gonna swallow his tongue when he sees you in this.” I nodded solemnly.
“For real,” April echoed.
Emily flushed pink, and when her smile turned slightly wicked, I knew she was already thinking ahead to her wedding day. Maybe even the wedding night. Nope. I wasn’t going there.
She twirled for us one more time, then went back into the dressing room, emerging a few minutes later in her jeans and T-shirt. Fashion show was over, apparently.
“Next!” She clapped her hands together while, behind her, our assigned shop attendant cleared the dressing room of rejected wedding gowns. “April, your dress is in there. The green. Stacey, you’re after April.”
I kept a smile on my face while my anxiety spiked. This was exactly what I was nervous about. I wasn’t terribly self-conscious about my body. It was mine and it was healthy, even if it was a little rounder than the glossy women’s magazines said it should be. I knew how to dress myself, and I knew what looked good on me.
But that didn’t mean Emily knew. She was tiny. She was thin. In her wedding dress, once we put a crown of flowers on her head, she would look like a fairy princess. Her sister was built much the same, so Emily wouldn’t have any problem finding something that would work on her. But on my completely different body type? This could be a disaster. Sure, I’d given her input on dress ideas—our shared Pinterest board was impressive. But I hadn’t seen any of her real choices before today. Those first two wedding gowns had been garbage, so I didn’t trust her taste anymore. What was she making us wear?
Sure enough, a few minutes later April came out of the dressing room looking like a model. Well, a model who was a foot too short to actually walk a runway, with no shoes on, and still wearing the baseball cap she’d worn to the shop.
“Ser
iously?” Emily plucked the hat from her sister’s head, and April snatched it back.
“I’m not wearing it in the wedding, calm down.” She stuffed her hair back inside her hat, threading it through the back, then smoothed her hands down the dress. “This works. I mean, we have to take it in, but they’ll do that, right?”
Take it in. I’d never had that problem. I tried not to roll my eyes while I surveyed April’s dress. Then I pursed my lips and turned to Emily. “You were trolling us with those first two dresses. I knew it.” April’s dress was a riff on Emily’s gown: simpler lines and in pastel green, but the same lacy handkerchief hem, this time with a sleeveless, high-necked bodice that called attention to April’s well-toned arms.
Emily grinned. “Okay, maybe a little. But I wanted to be sure, you know?” She nudged me. “Your dress is in there too. The pink. Go try it on; I can’t wait to see.”
I didn’t want to. April’s dress looked perfect on her, but if I wore it I’d look like a sausage in a too-small casing. My boobs would distort the lace, and the high-neck sleeveless cut would make my very not-toned arms look like Christmas hams. But I trudged into the dressing room anyway, because that was what you did for best friends. You wore awful dresses and your biggest smile while they got married.
Inside the dress was waiting for me. A perfect soft pink, but I couldn’t tell much about the shape of it from how it draped off the hanger. I stepped into the dress and pulled it up over my hips. It cleared them, and I blew out a sigh of relief. One hurdle down. One to go: getting it zipped up.
As I stuck my arms through the sleeve holes, I realized there was far too much fabric for this to be a high-necked dress like April’s, or a halter-top like Emily’s. I got the dress settled on my shoulders and reached behind me for the zipper. It went up a little more than halfway but stopped under my shoulder blades. No amount of jumping around the dressing room and stretching my arms behind me would get it to go up the rest of the way. Finally I gave up and turned back to the full-length mirror.
I looked amazing. Well, there was still the issue of the dress not zipping up all the way, so it distorted the way the neckline fell, but otherwise it looked like it was made for me. The draped neck was both revealing and modest all at once, and the dress was topped off with fluttery cap sleeves. The pale pink was the perfect shade: warm against my skin, it made me look brighter somehow, the way a good blush brings dimension to your cheeks. My dress was different from the others, but it looked the same too: all three dresses had the coordinating handkerchief hem. Modern dresses with almost period detail. Appropriate.
I was in love with this dress. If only it fit. My emotions were all over the place as I joined the other two outside, where Emily and April both proceeded to coo over my dress.
“But it doesn’t fit.” I turned around to show them how it was only zipped halfway up.
“You just can’t reach it. Here . . .” April stepped up behind me to try the zipper, but it only went up another inch or two. Embarrassment rushed through me in a hot wave, and my insides clenched in a full-body cringe. I opened my mouth to apologize, but Emily dismissed it with an impatient wave.
“Bridal dress sizes are bullshit. We’ll order it bigger and have them take it in at the waist.”
“Exactly,” April said. “They’re gonna have to alter mine too, so it’s no big deal.”
My cringe eased at not only her words, but her nonchalant attitude about it. Like fog disappearing when the sun came out, my discomfort dissolved. They were right. Dresses got altered all the time. There was no shame in ordering a few sizes up and making it fit. I was so used to the inconvenience of being plus-sized that apologizing for it was second nature. But like April said, it wasn’t a big deal. I’d been the one building it up inside my head, and that was all on me.
I turned back to the mirror and looked at the three of us. Emily back in her civilian clothes, April in her bridesmaid dress and baseball cap, and me in my dress that barely held me in. But I put those things aside and saw how April and I coordinated. I pictured Emily’s dress in the mix. The three of us outdoors, in the woods at twilight. We’d look like a maypole. We’d look like summertime. It was going to be a gorgeous wedding.
* * *
• • •
I was practiced in the art of the mirror selfie. And “art” was absolutely the word to describe it. There was a specific technique to holding the phone, so you both got yourself completely in-frame and didn’t block anything important. Don’t look at the phone with a furrowed brow or a did-I-get-the-shot expression. Look relaxed, smile confidently into the mirror, and just delete and try again if the shot didn’t work out. I’d deleted a lot of shots when I’d first started taking pics. But now, jokes about my Instagram addiction aside, it had made me really good at the mirror selfie.
So, back in the dressing room, before I took off the bridesmaid’s dress I snapped a couple pics, and when I got home I contemplated putting them up on Instagram. I hadn’t posted a selfie in a while, and maybe the people who followed my feed would like a break from pictures of my cat. But would it spoil the surprise? What if Simon happened upon the photo? He’d have a clue to what Emily would look like, and that wouldn’t be good at all. No, I should keep the selfie off social media.
But what was the point of taking a selfie if you didn’t share it with anyone? Besides, there was only one person whose reaction I was after. I pulled up my text chain with Dex and sent him the pic.
I saw his response a half hour later, after I put together a salad for dinner. Very nice. New work outfit?
Ha, I wrote back, though I blinked back disappointment as I did so. I wanted him to lose his mind when he saw me in that dress, the way I pictured Simon would when he saw Emily. Bridesmaid dress for this summer.
Are you sure you wanna wear that?
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I scrolled back up to look at the picture again. I’d made an effort to arrange the neck so the draped fabric fell perfectly, the way it would when it fit and I could zip it up all the way. I loved that dress. I looked nice in it. Or I would, once it fit. What’s wrong with it?
Seems rude, outshining the bride. That’s all.
Oh, he was good.
Before I could respond, he sent another text. This must be the year for weddings. My old college roommate is getting married in June. Not too long before we head back in your direction.
Then you’ll be going to two weddings this summer, I replied. If you want to, that is. This one’s happening at Faire.
Oh, I want to. You think I’d miss seeing you looking like that in person?
A grin crawled up my face, and I pressed one hand to my cheek, which had gotten awfully warm.
He texted again. You don’t know what I’d give for the chance to dance with you in that dress.
My grin dipped a little. It was a nice sentiment, but it seemed so . . . pessimistic. As though he thought the chance of actually getting that dance was unlikely. You think I’d turn you down? You have to know I’m a pretty sure thing here.
He took a long time to reply. Longer than he really should have. LOL of course.
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask him to. Something about his “LOL” rang false. I couldn’t explain how I understood that via text, but I did. Dex had never been an LOL kind of guy, so to use it now felt like a brush-off.
I’d always known, of course, that when Faire rolled around and we saw each other face-to-face and in the flesh again, things might change a little. We knew each other so much better than we had last summer, but we hadn’t talked. Hadn’t touched. We would have to reconcile all the things we’d said via email and text with seeing each other in the flesh. Would all this flirting translate into a real relationship once he came back to town? Or would the sensitive, intellectual Dex I’d gotten to know over the past few months be subsumed by the swaggering hottie I’d hooked up with the two previ
ous summers? Even after all this time, it was hard to believe that they were the same man.
My finger hovered over his number, and not for the first time I thought about calling him. It would be so simple. One tap, and I could hear his voice. But I didn’t. I’d never taken that step, and neither had he. We were keeping that final bit of distance between us, no matter how intimate our conversations.
So I clicked my phone off without calling him. Summer was almost here. Almost time for Faire sign-ups, and for the cast of the Willow Creek Renaissance Faire to be assembled once again. Before I knew it, it would be July. Faire would open, and Emily and Simon would get married.
And I’d see Dex again. For better or for worse.
Ten
My phone dinged with a text one Tuesday night in April while I was unloading the dishwasher, and I dove for it with embarrassing eagerness. I was disappointed to see that the text was from Simon Graham and not from Dex, and then I was disappointed in myself for being disappointed.
Sign-ups for Faire are Saturday at 10. Can I count on you to help out as usual?
Of course, I texted back immediately. Wouldn’t miss it!
Thank you. You’re great at recruiting the adults.
I know. I couldn’t hide my smirk as I tapped out my reply. I got Emily on board a couple years ago, after all. I’d been the one to shove a clipboard in her hands and gently break it to her that if her niece Caitlin wanted to be in the cast, then Emily had to be too. The rule was barely enforced, but to my surprise Emily hadn’t dropped out, as most well-meaning parents did. She’d been dedicated, and after some initial clashes of personality with Simon, she’d become pretty dedicated to him too.
You did, Simon texted back. There was a pause as he kept typing. Been meaning to thank you for that.
I grinned at my phone. Simon was not an effusive guy; for him that was practically a squee. See you Saturday morning. I’ll be there an hour early.
