EM
It's very rare that I have to remind myself why Nikki's my best friend, but wedding dress shopping a few days after her engagement party necessitates a reminder roughly every ten minutes.
"I just don't know." Her voice drifts from the fitting room, filled with consternation. I can easily visualize the pose she's striking in the mirror right now. Her lips are probably pursed in concentration, head tilted to the side with hip jutted out.
We've been at the bridal shop for three hours now. Joey's slouched against a wall as I jiggle my knee in agitation. I'd started fidgeting when we passed the one-hour mark and haven't stopped since, my hand itching to grab my phone and check for missed calls or e-mails. There are a couple of job openings that I'd sent my resume in for last night that I'm waiting to hear back on.
But this is Nikki's show, so I keep the phone on vibrate, tucked neatly inside my purse. It's going to be her wedding day, her wedding pictures, and this is her wedding dress that's going to be at the center of everything in a few months. It's a Big Deal and even in my thoughts, the words sound capitalized.
Still, around the two-hour mark, I'd left the charitable thoughts behind. I eye the empty bottles of champagne on the table longingly. Joey, Nikki, and I had finished them shortly after they'd been provided by the sales attendant, back in those halcyon hours when I'd idiotically assumed that this would be a short, relatively painless process.
"Okay!" Nikki exclaims from the dressing room. I hear a loud clap and imagine her nodding decisively.
The door flies open to reveal a frothy concoction of white lace and beading. The dress's bell skirt climbs to a sweetheart neckline embellished with iridescent crystal beading.
If dresses were bicycles, this would be the bright pink one, with a flowered wicker basket, silver sparkling streamers, and a bell.
It's a comparison that isn't difficult to make as I take in Nikki's complexion, reddened from the effort of squirming in and out of what has to be at least thirty dresses at this point, hair ruffled, and a sheen of sweat on her forehead.
I press my lips together and sip the last drop from my champagne flute to keep a smile from appearing as I picture Nikki in that monstrosity of a dress, pink helmet flattening her hair, lips pursed determinedly as she pedals up the aisle toward Ron.
"What do you think?" she asks us. She runs a dreamy hand across the beading. "Everyone loves a fairy tale and this screams it, don't you think?"
It's definitely screaming something. That's for damn sure. I make a noncommittal "Mm" noise and sip from my glass again, which—right—is empty now.
"So," Nikki says with an excitable intake of breath, easily bypassing the silence Joey and I have given her.
Oh, thank God. I straighten up from where I've sunk into the plush couch and prepare to squeal with delight over Nikki finally, finally finding her "perfect" wedding dress.
"I've narrowed it down to five like this one!" Nikki hops once in place and holds her hands to her mouth to hold in the little bubble of giddy laughter that's escaping.
My face falls. My eyebrows crash down, eyes closing in a silent prayer, and the corners of my mouth fold into the frown lines that Mom is always warning me about.
She's your best friend. She's put up with a lot from you over the years, I remind myself as I lock my teeth together, jaw clenched tight to keep any negativity from verbally spilling out.
Like I said, it's rare that I need the reminder, but it does happen.
Nikki pulls her hair to the side and fans her neck with her free hand. "What do you think? You like it right?"
"Do you like it? That's what's important," I say diplomatically. I know my place here. I'm the maid of honor—and more importantly, she's my best friend. I'm here to back her up. Whether I'm ready to run for the hills or not, if she needs me here, she's got me.
"This is stupid," Joey interrupts bluntly. "Nikki, you're practically dripping in that thing. A sweaty bride just doesn't make for cute pictures, sorry. And it's all blingy." She blanches. "No one will be looking at you; they'll be too distracted by the dress. It's not the one. And if they're anything like this, the others probably aren't either."
Joey throws a look my way. "You know you were thinking it too. I was just the only one with the balls to say it."
Nikki deflates visibly. "You really think that?" She turns to survey herself in the three-sided mirror again. The dressing room door creaks open an inch further.
I cringe. The room is crammed with white gowns. I'm not sure how Nikki's breathing in there, much less getting in and out of the dresses. Joey hit the nail on the head, albeit a bit harshly.
Nikki grabs her skirt and swishes from side to side. "I don't know," she says doubtfully. "My mom couldn't make another trip down after the engagement party, but she said she always saw me in something like this for my wedding."
She spins suddenly and watches her reflection avidly as the dress flies around her and settles. "See!" She whirls to face us and watches the skirt flare with a satisfied gleam in her eyes. "Something that I can twirl in, something princessy."
I clear my throat. "Well, Joey sort of has a point," I say, taking a few careful steps toward Nikki.
She glares at me.
"Not that it's stupid," I amend hastily. I could kill Joey for that. "Just that the dress—it's a lot. And this is your day. Don't you want people looking at you, not just your dress? You can still find something that twirls, but maybe something with not quite as much—um. Poof," I finish lamely.
Nikki half-smiles self-deprecatingly, the manic light in her eyes fading. I can just about recognize my best friend again. She rolls her eyes and open her mouth, when a new voice interjects.
My spine stiffens instantaneously even as I steel myself not to react, not to turn and face him.
"Jesus Christ," the deep voice says, dripping with disgust and horror. "Did a kindergarten class throw up on that thing?"
What is Cole doing here?
Nikki squeals and goes flying past me in a whirl of flash and glitter. I have to give Cole that much: the dress does remind me of some of the more hideous elementary art projects I've seen.
Nikki barrels into him, swatting him for the slight against the dress— and maybe a little for her profession too. "I'm going to choose to ignore that slight toward my students."
Why does he keep showing up where I don't expect him? First, my mom's house and now, here. I rotate on the couch, focusing on the maroon fibers. I pick a piece of lint from between two cushion with hands that are suddenly cold.
"I thought this was a bridesmaids-only thing," Joey mutters to me, one eye on Cole.
"Cole lived with us for three years in college. If he wasn't Ron's best man, he probably would be in the bridal party."
Joey lets out a sharp bark of laughter as I stand up, dusting my knees and forcing a smile onto my face. What the hell am I delaying for? I've already seen him twice in the few days I've been back. Once more isn't going to kill me.
As Nikki babbles excitedly, Cole smiles and his eyes wander past her to me.
Oh good, I can't help thinking as my eyes meet Cole's. My stomach swoops. Gang's all here again.
"How are you, Cole?" I say. Whoops. I manage to keep my hand from reaching out for another shake, but I miss the mark on 'pretending we're okay.' I think the air in the room just dropped ten degrees.
Cole's smile is equally awkward, and he looks like he'd like to respond with "Uncomfortable as all hell. Except I'm pretty sure the temperature there is considerably more pleasant."
But, come on. I didn't expect him here—and with good reason.
He, on the other hand, had to know I'd be here. Nikki's wedding dress shopping. She doesn't even like to buy a new pair of shorts without a second opinion. She's decisive in every other aspect of her life, but her appearance? No, she likes to know how she'll be perceived by others. Which is why I feel a little guilty over the fact that I don't think she'll wind up buying the dress she's wearing.
"Not bad," Cole says. He rocks back on his heels and bobs his head. "Nikki asked me if I'd stop by. What have you been up to?" His hands get stuck in his pockets when he tries to motion towards me to indicate handing off the conversation.
"In the three days since you've seen me last?" I tug on my ear and his eyes light as he catches the movement. I curse inwardly. I'd had the same nervous habit in college, and I thought that I'd managed to rid myself of it. "You know. Moving. Getting my own place."
Nikki rolls her eyes. "She considers the tiny apartment over her mom's store her 'own place.'"
I redden, and squash her foot with deliberate intent. "Am I sharing living space with my mom? No. Besides, the rent is good." I at least have enough humor left to make a joke at my own expense.
"That's a much better spin on it," Cole says, nodding.
"That's not spin." I frown at him. "Those are the facts."
"The facts are that your bun is knotted too tightly," Nikki informs me.
Hey. I transition my frown to her. When I'd gotten dressed that morning, I'd thought the loose tank with a blazer, jeans, and messy bun was a cute look considering my whittled-down wardrobe.
Cole coughs to cover a laugh and Nikki pulls him further into the shop, nearly tripping over the long train of the skirt as she turns back. "You remember Joey, right?" Nikki flings her arm in Joey's direction. Joey's only acknowledgement is to smirk in Cole's general vicinity as she flips us a wave good-bye on her way out the door.
It's just the three of us now. "And obviously you already know Em. And you two are as just awkward as ever."
"We're fine, Nikki," we both say. She could be a little less matter-of-fact about it.
"Kicking ass, taking names," Cole continues nonsensically.
I have to call him out on that. He's practically begging for it. And if I'm supposed to be pretending things aren't strained between us, it's what the old Em would have done. "Exactly whose ass have you been kicking?"
"It's a Cole-oquialism," he says.
It wouldn't have been a strange thing to say to me once. Our conversations had been filled with little in-jokes like that. Turns of phrases weren't colloquialisms, but Cole-oquialisms. When he was trying to talk me into something, he wasn't a con artist, but a Connors artist.
But the joke doesn't have the same effect now. His voice has an odd note in it, distracted, as if he's caught under the weight of a memory. Like a robot, I force a laugh.
Nikki stands as a barrier between us, but we're suddenly yanked in when she seizes the both of us in a hug.
"I'm so happy you're both here," she bubbles. "It's going to be just like old times!"
My heart is doing a gymnastics routine in my chest as I try to ignore the warmth of Cole's arm brushing against mine. He laughs uneasily. "Yeah." He rubs at his neck. "Just like old times." He catches my eye and looks away just as quickly. "Listen, Nik, I've got to go."
Her face falls. "But you just got here!"
"I know," he says. "But like I told you, I have a meeting tonight, and since I was late getting here..." he trails off. Nikki puffs her lower lip out in a pout. "We'll do lunch this week," he bargains—a peace offering— and holds his hands out in a shrug, the universal sign for 'what can you do?'
"But you didn't even tell me what you think—" Nikki starts to protest.
"The dress is horrible," Cole says flatly, lifting his briefcase from where he'd deposited it against the wall.
Poor Nikki. Still, the laugh falls out before I can catch it. He pauses for a fraction of a second. His eyes are on mine when he says "See ya, Nik" and walks out the door just as quickly as he'd come. I sag with relief when he leaves, like a palpable burden has been lifted from my shoulders. That hadn't been so bad. Quick and relatively painless.
Nikki eyes me. "I know what you're thinking."
"When did you get your own late-night psychic show, Miss Nikki?"
She ignores this. "You're thinking that if you can keep all encounters with Cole that short and sweet, you may escape unscathed."
"I don't know what you're talking about." I pick up our empty champagne glasses and bottles and look for the saleslady.
"It's not going to be that easy, Em. You're going to have to learn how to be around him again." She marches determinedly after me, skirt rustling.
"You say it like he's a bull that will go berserk over the color red or something."
"No, if there's an animal in this equation, it's you."
"Hey—"
She pushes her hair out of her face. "I don't know anyone else that runs the way you do. Like a deer in the headlights."
"And the award for over-used similes goes to…"
She tuts and slams the door to the dressing room on her way in. "Simile or not, you know I'm right," she calls.
I swallow. "Forget my bun. I think that dress is too tight. It's cutting off air flow to your brain."
The door crashes open. "Forget it. Just tell me this—you're committed to helping me with my wedding, right?"
"Yes," I say around a rock sitting in my throat.
Her eyes glint with a promise. "That's all I need to hear."
I have a terrible feeling about this.
∞
By the time Nikki gets changed and convinces the saleslady she's not ready to buy a dress yet, it's eight o'clock and Mom's store is closed when Nikki drops me off. A bell tinkles lightly when I unlock the door and push it open.
"Mom?" I call. "I'm back." Not finding her inside, I frown. She said she'd wait for me here. I head toward the back of the store and take the green carpet-lined stairs two at a time, one hand lightly resting on the wrought iron railing.
When I open the door to the converted studio above the shop, a sharp intake of breath greets me.
"Oh!" my mother exclaims. "Emmeline Hayes, you scared the bejeezus out of me," she scolds. One hand is on her hip as she stands before my window; the other hand clutches yards of hunter green plaid. She turns back to the window, holding the fabric out before her as she considers it.
"For the love of God and all that is holy," I say, approaching her like a police officer edging toward a suspect, "put down the fabric and step away from my window."
"You need drapes. I'm just trying to make it homey in here." Mom drops the fabric in favor of being able to place self-righteous hands on her hips.
"Dark green plaid does not say 'Welcome home,' Mother," I say, picking it up and handing it back to her. "It says 'Welcome to my hunting lodge.'"
"Right now, the only thing this place is saying is 'Welcome to my storage unit,'" Mom retorts, clutching her plaid to her chest.
Fair enough. My boxes are piled high around the room, obscuring the walls behind them. The few clothes I brought home in my duffel bag are flung over the unmade daybed that serves as both couch and bed.
It had seemed only logical for me to move into the studio apartment above the boutique. After all, it's been sitting unused since Mom bought the shop during my senior year of college. After Dad, her therapist had suggested a project to occupy her time and energy.
He'd probably meant that she should knit a sweater or create a scrapbook, but Mom never does anything halfway. She'd opened Everything But with unfounded confidence despite never having managed a store in her life. Unable to decide whether she should sell clothes, accessories, books, or home décor, she'd decided that she would just throw it all together and sell "Everything But" the kitchen sink.
Mom exhales in frustration. "I still don't see why you don't just come back home and move into your old room." She folds her plaid, giving the curtains up as a battle best fought another day. "You know that's what I meant when I mentioned free rent."
"Because, Mom," I say, moving to the fridge and rummaging inside. I find a container of leftover Chinese food and begin stabbing at it with a fork. "No offense, but I like having my own space"
"Well, that's just silly," she says, but she lets it go and plops down on my bed. "How did the shopping go? Did Nikki find the dress of her dreams yet?"
"No." I swallow a bite of chicken. "But she found the one from my nightmares." I join her on the couch and sit crisscrossed. "God, you should have seen it," I say around a mouthful of lo mein. "It was the most ridiculously…" I search for a word to adequately describe the dress. "Floofy dress I've ever seen in my life."
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Mom says primly and smooths my hair. "And 'floofy' is not a word."
I pull a face and yank my hair down from its bun, shaking it loose. It really had been too tight.
"So," I say, striving for casual. "Cole showed up at the store."
From the way Mom's head whips around to look at me, I don't think I achieved the laid-back tone I was going for. "How was that?" she asks cautiously.
"Fine." My voice comes out too tight and Mom's gaze sharpens.
"That's it? Fine?"
"What do you expect me to say, Mom? That we talked over grilled cheese for two hours like we used to?" Unsettled, I stand up and toss my now-empty carton in the trash can. "We're adults now, things aren't that simple."
"Sweetie, things between you and Cole haven't been simple since the day you met."
"You weren't there the day we met," I remind her.
She dismisses that with a wave of her hand. "Doesn't matter. I talked to you that week. You tried to sound all nonchalant about him, but I could tell. A mother knows," she says, wagging a finger at me.
"I told you he was cute, that's all," I say. Years later and I still haven't forgotten the hop in my stomach when I shook Cole's hand for the first time.
"Mm. Whatever you say, Emily."
Dad's favorite Sinatra song. He'd been the only one I let call me Emily, despite it not being my given name. I wince. "Don't call me that."
Mom's voice softens. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry." She reaches across the space between us and lays a hand on my arm.
But I keep my face impassive. I have to or I'm afraid it'll crash and fall into the pit of my stomach, where a sea of stirred-up emotion thrashes now. In a corner of my mind, I hear Dad singing, Emily, Emily, Emily.
Mom sighs. "I'll call you tomorrow." She gathers her purse and the fabric that she'd been determined to make curtains with. There's a brief hesitation before she brushes a kiss across my cheek. "I love you, sweetheart."
I give her a light hug. "Love you too, Mom."
She pulls back. "Lock the door behind me?" she asks, looking at me searchingly.
My lips quirk up into a half-hearted smile. "I always do."
∞
Days later, I answer the phone, cringing. "Hey, Nik."
"Are you avoiding me?" she demands.
I flinch as I walk downstairs to open Everything But, grateful for the distraction. Agreeing to work a few hours of retail is a small price to pay for a little cash, free rent, and my own space. "You're my best friend," I hedge. "Why would I be avoiding you?"
"Now, you're avoiding the subject," she accuses. "I told you I wanted to have lunch today to go over some wedding plans."
I light some of the accent lights around the shop. Their soft glows perfectly set off the kitschy jewelry we sell, making the rhinestones sparkle and the faux pearls shine. "I don't know if I can make it. Mom needs me to watch the store."
I wander over to shop's "Book Nook." A large bookshelf holds an array of novels and a small circular white table displays the shop's most recent buys. I fiddle with one cover, arranging it so the book lays just so on the table's surface.
I know what I'd promised Nikki, but I can't help it; something about wedding planning makes my skin crawl. I get the urge to bury my head in the sand or run far, far away. Or, run far, far away and then bury my head in the sand.
"You can," Nikki says firmly. "I already talked to your mom and she's going to watch the shop for a few hours."
"You went behind my back?" I say indignantly, phone pressed to one ear with my shoulder as I flip the store's sign from "Bad timing" to "Come on in!"
"I did what I had to," Nikki says. "I'm not sorry, but I will be if I have to kill you because you don't show up."
"Hellooooo!" The shop's bell tinkles overhead. A round face noses its way in, brown eyes alight when she spies the twinkling jewelry. First customer of the day.
"Nikki, I have to go."
"One o'clock. Death penalty." Nikki's voice is grim with promise before she hangs up.
I stick my phone in my back pocket and turn toward the customer. "How can I—"
The bell rings again. Another one, this early? But no, it's Mom, already striding toward the customer to politely let her know that she's there if she needs anything or has any questions.
Task accomplished, Mom gives me a gentle shove toward the stairs to my itty-bitty living space. "I'll take care of the shop today. Go get ready for lunch. You can borrow my car."
"You really don't have to—"
"Honey," she cuts in, "if you think I'm going to risk Nikki's wrath, you have got another think coming."