by Lexi Ryan
***
“That is the one,” Mom declares an hour into dress shopping.
I would have hated every minute of this at my old size. Putting on these dresses and modeling them for my critical mother—it would have pretty much been my own personal hell.
But at this size, it’s not so bad. The attendant brings in dress after dress, seemingly unconcerned about my own personal taste and style, and my mom dotes on me in every one. Even in the dresses she doesn’t like, she squeaks when I walk out of the dressing room.
And the way she’s looking at me in this one makes the little girl in me—the one desperate for her approval—so gleefully happy. I know this will be the dress we buy, regardless of how I feel about the style.
“Take your hair down,” Mom says. She comes up behind me and releases my barrette to let my heavy, dark hair fall past my shoulders. “Get her a veil,” she calls to the attendant.
The attendant rushes over with a veil in the same super-soft fabric featured on the dress and slides it into my hair.
“It’s perfect, isn’t it, sweetheart?”
When she turns me to face the big three-panel mirror, I can’t reply. I look like…a bride.
“It’s perfect,” Mom says for me. “We’re getting this one. No question.”
It’s not something I would have picked. It’s fitted all the way down through the hips and is covered with twinkling rhinestones. It’s one of those dresses I would love for someone else, but it’s not really for me. I always pictured myself getting married in something softer. Simpler.
“We’re in a tight timeline,” Mom says. “What kind of discount can you give me if we buy off the rack?”
The attendant and Mom haggle over price as I stare at my reflection. It’s just a dress. It doesn’t really matter if it’s my dream dress. All that matters is the guy. All that matters is Max.