How to Ruin a Wedding(64)

She leads us to a separate room with high ceilings and three beautiful and incredibly stiff-looking couches clustered around a three-way mirror on a tiny stage I assume is meant for brides to show off their gowns.

“Champagne?” the woman asks us. “We also have nonalcoholic for the little one.”

The “little one” comment earns a glare from Olive. “I’ll take a champagne with alcohol.”

“We’ll just have water,” I say, trying to stifle a laugh.

Just as she leaves, Valerie enters in a tiny white silk minidress, barely covering her thighs. I suddenly feel like I should start waking up at five for long runs. And go on a diet.

“Wow, so prompt,” Valerie says by way of greeting. “You’ll be the only ones. I told everyone else we started thirty minutes earlier, and they’ve yet to arrive.”

“Wouldn’t miss a minute,” I say. “I take my job as a stand-in dress placeholder incredibly seriously.”

“Good,” Valerie says, “because I’ve picked out seventeen dresses that will look good on Cierra.” When I laugh, she gives me a look of sympathy. “Oh, that’s not a dramatization.”

“Well,” I say, “let’s get started.”

The woman assigned to help us, Mimi, returns with drinks, a dress-fitting kit, and endless patience.

At first, Olive and I have a little fashion show. Our fitting rooms are beside each other, and with each try-on, we strut down our pretend runway, making a show of twirling for Valerie as she downs her wine and cheers.

Seven dresses in, Olive and Valerie mutually decide that a pale-pink dress with a flowing skirt is her best and cutest option. I-as-Cierra, unfortunately, am on my tenth dress and still not impressing Valerie.

Only two of Valerie’s four other friends have arrived—one of them, Jennifer, whom I see reaching into a bag I’m not entirely sure is hers at least three times. We all keep removing and pulling on clothes for Valerie, who has very detailed criteria on what looks good and what doesn’t.

I’m not entirely sure what the criteria is, since she only says, “So cute . . . but no,” or “Are you trying to outdo the bride?” depending on the dress. While our try-on continues, all Valerie’s friends eventually join.

The final one is a woman, Ashley, in a miniskirt and slicked-back ponytail with a girl around Olive’s age beside her. “Sorry,” she says, irritation marring her unnaturally smooth features. “My brother had an appointment and dropped my niece off with me. He’s still not back. You know Erin, right, Olive? You have art together.”

Erin, in the same slicked-back ponytail and a mirror of Ashley’s irritation, smiles as she sits beside Olive, who stiffens. I recognize the look of an asshole kid—when you grow up wearing only hand-me-down off-brand clothes, you become familiar with it. I clock it, but move on.

Not your place, Lucy. Olive isn’t mine to protect, no matter how much I want to.

I need to draw my lines. Not just with Anders, but with all of this. His family. His world. Because when I go—when, not if—I don’t want to leave too much hurt behind. Especially for a young Olive, who is growing attached to me easily.

Valerie appears, holding up another dress for me to try.

I’ve lost count after seventeen dresses, and automatically just swap my outfit and head back out. Another dud. Ashley and I are the only ones still on the hunt for the perfect dress, until an off-the-shoulder lightweight gown for her gets Valerie’s approval, and she forces me to try on a spaghetti-strapped number.

My arms ache as I lift, this time needing assistance from Mimi to remove the previous dress, and she gives me a thumbs-up when I pull down the newest option.

I grip her arm as I leave the fitting room. “Pray for me,” I say, causing her to laugh.

When I make my reveal, Valerie’s thin brows pull together. She joins me on the stage, observing me, circling me, tapping her lips. “Stand up straight,” she orders.

I do as she says, and she moves back to get a full-length view. “Can you spin?”

I do.

“Slower.”

I do.

She hums, and it reminds me of how Anders does the same, and both of them sound so musical when they do.

“I love it,” Valerie says.

She barely gets the words out before I say, “Thank God.”

She laughs, then slaps my shoulder. “That’s it, girlies, we’ve all got our dresses.”

Some of the girls do a cheer, and I watch Olive smile but shift away from Erin after she whispers something in her ear.

Mimi appears, clapping her hands. “Shall I take a commemorative photo?”

All the girls remain in their dresses for it, and line up on the stage. I try to hang back, since I’m not officially in the party, and Valerie yanks me up with her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “It’s just a photo.”

After we take a few shots before we all change back into our clothes, one of the girls says, “Wait, we haven’t seen you in your dress.”

Valerie sweeps her hair behind her. She, Bethany, and Olive did the wedding dress shopping privately. Valerie showed me a picture of every angle of her dress when we were drunk at the park.

“Can we see you try it on?” Jennifer asks.

Valerie pretends to act modest and shy as the girls start to chant. “See the dress! See the dress!” At last she gives in, and Mimi takes her to the larger, single, bridal changing room.