“Come on,” Julia says, reading my hesitancy. “Wouldn’t it feel good to just . . . let this stuff all go?”
I scan the stuff in question. What am I waiting for?
This, I think. Them. To not be alone. To have friends bear witness to the death of this dream.
I take the box from Julia. “I’m ready.”
She claps. “I’ll get the wine.”
Ashleigh queues up a playlist she’s titled You’re Divorced, Not Dead, which has the urgency of a spin-class soundtrack. Julia pours us each a glass of sauvignon blanc, filling mine to the brim, and absolutely everything in the closet gets pulled out and laid across the living room floor.
We move lamps around to get good lighting, and snap pictures like every piece is an element of a crime scene.
I jot down quick descriptions, which Julia promises to post to a few different resale apps, and honestly, it’s kind of fun.
Three glasses of wine and several hours later, we finally get to the dress itself.
“Well, obviously you have to try it on,” Ashleigh says.
“Yes.” Julia claps again.
I shove the fabric at her. “You can, if you want.”
“She’s not the one who chose it,” Ashleigh cuts in. “You did. Don’t you want one last look at it?”
“More importantly,” Julia cuts in, “don’t you want your friends to see you looking drop-dead gorgeous in it before it’s Halloween and you’re driving past a frat house where some teenager in a Bride of Frankenstein wig is puking down the front of it?”
She has a point. No one’s ever seen me in the dress, except my mom and my ex-almost-mother-in-law. If I’m sending it off, I could at least give it some fanfare.
“Try. It. On,” Ashleigh chants. Julia immediately joins in. “Try. It. On! Try. It. On!”
“Okay! Fine!” I relent. “I’ll try it on!”
With a giddy squeal, Julia pushes the wadded-up dress back into my arms, and Ashleigh leans forward to top off my wine. “Atta girl,” she says.
I turn and stuff myself in the bathroom to shuck off my work clothes.
It takes a few tries to get the dress over my head, the layers of silk and organza twisting around me in increasingly nonsensical ways, until finally I manage to push my face through it like I’m clumsily hatching from a three-thousand-dollar egg.
I hadn’t even wanted a wedding gown. I’d planned to find a cream silk or satin dress for a couple hundred bucks. But Peter’s mom had wanted me to at least try on some wedding dresses, and surprisingly, my mom agreed. Both of them had flown out for a weekend, to Virginia, and the three of us—Mom, Melly, and I—spent six exhausting hours sipping our way through the free champagne and Perrier of Richmond’s finest bridal boutiques.
I’d been prepared to thank them both for their time and reassert my plans to just get a non-wedding dress, until our last stop of the day, a shop specializing in vintage dresses that Melly had read about online.
Mom helped me put the dress on, and when she’d finished with the button at my nape, we both looked into the mirror and fell silent. She squeezed my shoulders and took a long, shuddering breath, her version of bursting into tears.
Then she said, in a quiet, unsteady voice, “You look like Grace Kelly.”
“I look nothing like Grace Kelly,” I whispered back.
“It’s the one,” Mom said. “Isn’t it?”
The dress was three thousand dollars, and I’d already—after much protestation—allowed Peter and the Collinses to pay for nearly everything. We would’ve had to have a courthouse wedding if Mom and I were footing the bill, and I was fine with that, but Peter’s family was traditional, and I wanted them to be happy.
“I think I’ll go with something simpler,” I said, a knot in my throat.
Mom sighed and pulled me in, resting her chin on my shoulder and holding my gaze in the mirror. “Let me do this.”
“You’ve already done everything,” I told her. “Absolutely everything. And you don’t even believe in all this.”
“Sweetie.” She smoothed my hair over my shoulder. “I believe in you. I believe you should and will have everything you’ve ever wanted, if you’re not too scared to go after it.”
It was the first time, one of very few, that I’d wondered whether Mom really was as happy on her own as she seemed to be.
“It’s the one,” she said again, kissing the side of my head. “You’re my one.”
“You’re mine too,” I said.
She smiled. “No, baby,” she said. “Now you’ve got two.”
There had been no I always told you not to rely on men from her when things came crashing down. There had been only kindness, comfort, scathing criticisms of Peter.
I still felt guilty about the dress, but whenever I brought up the possibility of paying her back, she joked that she actually owed me money, since I’d never needed her to bail me out of jail or replace a garage door I drove through “like a normal teen.”
The way my mom talked about “normal teens” made it clear that she’d been the kind they write movies about, who sneak out bedroom windows and throw keggers in the woods.
As I’m getting the dress over my shoulders, Ashleigh knocks and shouts something that sounds like a question at me through the door, but it’s unintelligible through the cocoon of fabric I’m fighting against. “Hold on!” I call back. “Give me a minute!” Another muffled reply.
I finally manage to shake out all the layers, and turn my back to the mirror to feel around for the zipper. It jams three times before I coax it to my shoulder blades.
