For the Love of Friends(38)

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.