I’m in hell.
The next time I see Chuck I’m going to kill him. That would solve all my problems: no fake fiancé, no fake engagement, no fake wedding to plan.
This has positively been the most miserable afternoon of my life. I’m drowning in wedding talk and surrounded by overexcited women: Mom, Abigail, Nana Fern, Aunt Muriel, my cousin Gretchen, and Josiane Masson—who seems committed to documenting every single moment of our fake relationship on camera for the world to see. The men—Pops and the dads—have been banished to the refurbished barn, lucky them. And I’ve no idea where Chuck has snuck off to, leaving me to hang.
I’ve been cornered and held captive in the living room since after lunch, being forced to listen to these smothering, nuptials-craving women ramble about wedding plans for hours. I’ve had to fend off one useless question after the other about a wedding that will never happen: summer or winter? Big or small? What color scheme? Where do we want to do it? And on and on…
Never mind how many times I tried to pass the message that just because Chuck and I got engaged today, it doesn’t mean the wedding will be soon—or ever. No matter what I said, they point-blank ignored all my objections. Of course, I didn’t disclose the one piece of the puzzle that could shut them up for good: that Chuck and I are no longer together, and the engagement is merely a huge misunderstanding. But I put forward plenty of plausible explanations for why we’d want to wait. We’re still young, we have to finish school first, maybe travel the world before we settle down…
Nothing. My words kept going into one ear and out the other, leaving no impressions on the brains in between.
Mom and Abigail have been so determined to see their two only children married to each other that, now that the dream is finally within their reach, they can’t feign even the smallest amount of self-control. They’re acting like over-sugared toddlers.
“What about the dress?” Aunt Muriel asks. “Do you know what shape you’re going for? With your figure, you’d look stunning in a mermaid dress.”
“But,” Abigail cuts in, “wouldn’t a princess gown with a wide skirt be more of a statement, like in a fairytale?”
“Ball gowns convert very well on socials,” Josiane Masson says. “They receive an average of twenty percent more likes.”
Nana Fern sighs. “The simpler, the more elegant, Dear. None of those crystal appliqués I see so often on the TV.”
Mom cuts into the conversation. “Stop the nonsense, gals.” I stare up at her with a glimmer of hope. Has someone finally realized how ludicrous the debate about a non-existent dress for a non-existent wedding has become? But then Mom finishes the phrase: “Kate is going to wear my wedding dress. It’s tradition.”
A general intake of breath seizes the room, and all eyes turn on me. I do my best not to cringe. My parents got married ages ago and Mom’s dress is close in style to Princess Diana’s wedding gown, which might’ve been all the rage after the royal wedding but definitely isn’t my style.
I smile with a non-committal, “We’ll see.”
Mom goes all teary-eyed. “Actually, would you… would you want to try it on?”
An even louder collective gasp spreads among the crowd.
The darkening sky provides me with the perfect excuse. “What if Chuck comes back and sees me, Mom? It’d be such bad luck.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Darling,” Abigail says. “Chuck is having a beer at The Plough and Harrow with Gary, Phil, and Finn. He texted me earlier. I don’t expect him to come home before dinner.”
Is there smoke coming out of my ears and nostrils? There must be, because I’m fuming. Chuck is out having the time of his life with friends, while I have to sit here and endure this!
“Wonderful,” Mom says. “I’ll go fetch the dress from the attic.”
The loft is directly above the living room, which my parents kept at double the height of all the other rooms in the house without a second story. From down here, we can hear her scrape around and move stuff like we would a raccoon.
Mom comes back ten minutes later with a proud smile on her face and a huge white box in her arms. The box is wrapped in several layers of plastic and, as my mom drops it on the coffee table in front of us, a cloud of dust puffs up. Abigail and I suffer the worst of it. Coughing and spluttering, I fan the air away from my face.
“Ah, well,” Mom says. “It’s been in storage for many years, so a little dust is normal.”
She peels off the first layer of plastic, the second, and the third, to reveal the box in all its white splendor. The golden Bluewater Springs Bridal writing shines intact in the firelight. And there goes my last hope mice would’ve eaten the damn thing, so I wouldn’t be forced to try the outdated frock on. Mom sets the plastic aside and turns the box toward me.
“Open it, Honeybun.”
I study the lid without touching it. “Mom, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s just a dress. It won’t bite you.”
With my luck these days, it probably will.
Reluctantly, I take off the lid and move aside various layers of protective wrapping tissue to uncover the eyesore underneath. Oh, gosh, the dress is even worse than I remembered from the pictures.
Mom can’t resist and pulls it and all its excess fabric out of the box to reveal the Gownster in all its horror.
“Of course, the gown will need a little restyling, but the fabric and lace detailing are still intact. This was your Grandma Mabel’s dress.” Tears surface in Mom’s eyes. “I had it adapted to marry your father, and now you will make it your own to marry Chuck. The Warren women all getting married in the same gown passed down from mother to daughter.”
I stare at the dress again. Even if I had any intention of actually marrying Chuck, which I don’t, I’m pretty sure no amount of tailoring could make that thing wearable.
“Mom, I’m not sure using your dress is a good idea.”
“The hashtag #mymomsdress is very popular on Instagram,” Josiane Masson pipes up. “Many modern brides choose an environmentally-conscious attitude toward fashion where fabrics are repurposed instead of being put to waste. Something old rather than something new will give The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company brand a real green boost.”
“What does the wedding have to do with the company?” I ask.
“Well, the wedding could play an important part in the rebranding. The company already dominates the niche of premium chocolates in the kids’ market. But we want to expand the appeal to adults and make it a true family brand.” Josiane pauses, and stares at Abigail. “At least, that’s how I understood the brief?”
Chuck’s mom smiles. “I couldn’t have said it better.”
“So,” Josiane continues, “the Chucokate launch will be the first aggressive play into the adults’ market for Valentine’s Day, but the wedding could be the real market push. I suggest doing it in winter, since it’s the bestselling season for chocolate. And would you consider the actual factory to host the ceremony?”
She doesn’t mean this winter, does she?
“Isn’t it premature to discuss venues?” I ask, a bit desperately.
Miss Influencer ignores my objections and moves along with her marketing pitch. “The town square would be a magnificent spot, too, as long as the candy shop could be featured in the background and maybe the gift shop, too—harder to do in winter, though. And Lillian, would you and Bud consider expanding the Chucokate brand to include a white chocolate variant that we could bring to market as the bridal line?”
“Aw, Josiane, that’s a marvelous idea.” Mom frowns, taken up in a creative moment. “We would have to adjust the acidity to compensate for the higher sweetness of the white chocolate, but I could definitely see it working.”
“I don’t even know if I want to get married in white,” I sulk.
“Then we’ll dye the chocolate and the dress whatever color you choose,” Mom says, waving her hand to dismiss my concerns. “Now, stop being such a spoilsport and go put the dress on.”
Everyone else cheers at this idea, so I have no other choice than to take the Gownster from my mom and stomp up to my room to change.
I yank my clothes off while whispering more death threats to Chuck. When he gets back, I’m going to use all this lace to strangle him.
To find the right hole to put my feet in, I have to shuffle through various layers of fabric. Then I struggle awhile to pull up the zipper. And, finally, I can step in front of the mirror.
Oh my gosh, someone take my eyes out. The Gownster is hideous, the perfect mix between The Little Mermaid and Diana’s wedding gowns. And while both were princesses and female icons, their sense of fashion leaves something to be desired in modern days.
I really don’t want anyone to see me wearing this.
“Honeybun!” Mom shouts from downstairs. “What’s taking you so long?”
Oh, will they just back the hell off?
Gathering up my skirts, I march out of the room and down the stairs to plant myself squarely in the center of the living room. I swear, if someone dares say this looks good, I’m going to scream.
“Well, yeah,” Mom says. “The sleeves might require a little work.”
“But the fabric is superb quality,” Abigail encourages. “You can tell the lacework is expensive.”
Nana Fern sighs contentedly, while Josiane raises her phone and starts snapping photos.
“Why are you taking pictures?” I ask.
“For any wedding dress makeover, it’s important to present before and after shots.”
“Well, sorry, but not everything is about business. And I’d prefer no one saw me wearing this.”
“No, you’re right, Honeybun,” Mom says. “Love is the most important part of a wedding. But trust me, even if we don’t use the photos in the campaign, you’ll want as many keepsakes of these happy times as you can get.”
Happy times. Right.
Josiane lowers her phone and stops taking pictures, but the damage is done. She must’ve already taken a thousand.
“Can I go change now?” I ask defeatedly.
“Yes, go, Honeybun,” Mom says. “But try to enjoy yourself a little. Weddings don’t have to be stressful.”
“Then don’t stress me about doing things I don’t want to do.”
“All right, all right. Go get changed, so we can decide how to spread the news. But be quick this time, I need to get started on dinner soon.”
“What do you mean ‘spread the news’? I told you I’m not ready to make any plans yet.”
“About the wedding, certainly not. But the engagement is a different story. We need to let all our friends and family know, plus plan the engagement party. Since you and Chuck will be home only for another three weeks, I was thinking of doing it just after New Year’s…”
My mouth goes dry. Until now, I hadn’t realized how serious the situation has become. Because if telling our families Chuck and I broke up was hard, imagine explaining to the entire town why we broke off our engagement. What a nightmare.
“Mom, why don’t we hold off on the announcement for a few days? Let people enjoy Christmas, and we can let them know afterward.”
“But, Honeybun, if we’re going to throw a party, the guests will need to know ahead of time to organize their schedules.”
I’m thinking of a believable reason to postpone the announcement when my phone pings with one, two, three… The messages just keep coming. My stomach sinks as Mom’s phone and Abigail’s start going off as well. This can’t be good.
I fight with the skirt, underskirts, and excessive ruffles to reach my bag on the couch and take out my phone.
Fifteen new notifications, and more pouring in. I open one at random.
Congratulations!
I scroll through a few others.
Oh, Kate, so excited for you and Chuck ♥♥♥
I heard the good news, I couldn’t be happier for you guys
I’m so happy for you and Chuck
All texts are the same. You and Chuck. You and Chuck. Happy. Happy. Happy. Blah, blah, blah… congratulations!
How did the news get out? It must’ve been either Chuck or Josiane who spilled the beans. It has to be. And if it was Chuck, I’m not going to be able to marry him in this monstrosity of a dress because I’ll already be in jail for his murder.
I turn to the moms. “Who talked?”
“Not me,” Mom says.
“How did they find out?”
Abigail checks her phone. “Let me ask Margaret,” she says, referring to The Chocolate Company’s social media manager.
We wait for a few heartbeats, during which more notifications rain upon us, until Abigail says, “Oh! Apparently, Chuck has made an unofficial announcement at The Plough and Harrow. He was celebrating with his friends and the news spread.” She looks up. “I guess that saves us from the family politics game of whom to tell first, right? Everyone knows already!”
“See?” Mom says, addressing me. “Chuck has the right spirit. Be happy, celebrate, tell the world.”
That’s the last straw. What is Chuck playing at? He must’ve gone stinking crazy mad!
I’m uttering the ultimate death threat in my head when the sound of footsteps approaches. I raise my gaze and meet the eyes of a shocked—and now very much terrified—Chuck.