Marcy holds out the first dress expectantly. “Ready?” she asks, arching a manicured eyebrow.
I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I untie the silk knot at my waist and awkwardly place the robe on the seat behind me. My skin crawls with goose bumps. Somehow, stepping into the open bodice of a wedding dress makes this entire experience feel tangible in a way that turns my blood cold. If all goes according to plan, I’m really getting married. I’m actually committing to this. A wedding. A husband. I’ve known this, of course, for weeks. But with a pool of lace swirling around my ankles, it suddenly feels more real than ever before.
Marcy expertly shimmies the gown up my legs and torso and sets on fastening the row of buttons along my spine. This dress is a sexy, skintight mermaid silhouette made from elaborately embroidered lace. There’s a sweetheart neckline, a tightly cinched waist, and see-through panels between the arcs of lace that expose flashes of skin. I drink in my reflection in the long mirror. True, this is one of the gowns that I had selected from the binder, but I suddenly hate it.
Marcy hands me a pair of white strappy sandals in my size and cheers, “Let’s go!”
“Okay?” I respond, slipping the shoes on.
My legs feel wobbly as I exit the dressing room and make the long, slow walk to the center of the atelier. Marcy helps me up onto a pedestal lodged between three full-length mirrors and the couch where Sophie, Carmen, and Vivian seem to be immersed in a conversation about moisturizers containing SPF.
“Oh!” Carmen shouts, just as Sophie mutters, “Oh . . .”
“It’s a lot,” Sophie adds.
“You look super fucking hot,” Carmen says.
“But like, maybe in a bad way,” Sophie offers.
I put my hands on my hips and swivel in front of the three-way mirror to catch every angle. My butt looks otherworldly, but I’m pretty sure this dress would cause my grandmother to drop dead of a heart attack.
“How would your fiancé feel about such a sexy look?” Marcy asks.
Sophie and Carmen fall silent. I try to stall with a long, “Mmmmmm,” and pretend to keep examining my reflection.
“You know, he’s not, like, the hugest fan,” I say, with the distinctly terrifying sensation of speaking without knowing how my sentence will end up. “Like, obviously, not opposed, um, in general. Privately. But for the big day, you know, not necessarily the top priority.”
“He’s excited to keep those special, sexy vibes just between the two of you,” Vivian rephrases cheerfully, clasping her hands together. Her eyes sparkle.
“Yes!” I exclaim. “Exactly. Just us.”
Thank god for publicists—they know how to spin a story.
Marcy’s eyebrow lifts again and it oozes judgment. “You look good, but fine, on to the next one,” she says, shrugging.
We head back to the dressing room, where she helps me out of the first dress and into the second. This is my other pick.
I chose this gown for the long sheer sleeves covered in lace vine appliqués; I thought they’d be practical for a fall wedding on a hotel rooftop. There’s a frighteningly low neckline, the kind I’ve only ever worn on Halloweekend in college, barely held together with a cluster of crystals hovering somewhere between my nipples and my navel. The skirt is a swishy rush of tulle that makes me feel like a ballerina.
Marcy finishes fastening the zipper, fluffs my hair around my shoulders, and steps back to examine my reflection. “Damn, girl.”
My cheeks flush. I sort of like the dress. I mean, I can see why a person would like the dress. The vibe is “sexy woodland nymph,” like something Holden’s fiancé Faye would wear. The skirt is just pure fun; I can imagine myself swirling around a dance floor in it. But the bodice—or lack thereof—makes me feel naked. I’m half a breath away from exposing myself, and that’s not how I want to feel on my wedding day. (My wedding day. There are those words again. It’s easy to forget, surrounded by wedding gowns, that I may not actually be able to pull off this wedding at all. At least not the kind of wedding where the groom actually shows up.)
“Let’s show your crew,” Marcy suggests, pulling open the door of the dressing room before I can protest.
I can tell before I reach the pedestal that something is wrong. Sophie’s eyes are red and puffy. Carmen is patting her arm. Vivian is frozen on the opposite end of the couch, clearly relieved at the sight of me and Marcy. I hustle as fast as the enormous skirt lets me and make it to the couch.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Sophie’s voice sounds nasal, like she’s about to cry. “No, no, it’s fine. We’ll talk later,” she insists.
I crouch down in front of her and take her hands. “Come on. What’s up?”
“Your boob is about to fall out of that dress,” she sniffles.
I adjust the neckline and clasp her hands again. “Thank you. Now talk.”
“Is this really the right place? I mean, you’re shopping,” she says.
“Sophie, it’s fiiine.”
She sighs heavily. “I was just telling Carmen how tough it’s been, you know, with the IVF process. And how we might not be able to afford another round, especially not right now.”
Carmen looks at me with wide eyes. “I’m sorry,” she mouths.
“Oh, Soph,” I say, shooing Carmen out of the way so I can perch on the edge of the couch to hug my sister.
I can feel her ragged attempt to regain her breath.
“Shh, shh, it’s going to be okay,” I tell her.
“I want money,” she says, pulling back. “I want to borrow fifteen thousand dollars from the business.”
“That’s a lot!” I protest.
“This is a lot,” she says, waving to my ridiculous gown and heavy diamond ring.
I ignore her jab. “Soph, that’s not how our company’s finances work,” I explain. “I can’t just give you fifteen thousand dollars from our corporate bank account, even if I wanted to. It’s complicated for tax reasons.”
“You could legally give me a fifteen-thousand-dollar raise, couldn’t you?” she asks.
“I—I don’t know if I, if we, can do that right now,” I say, faltering.
“So, what, we can put the company at risk for your interests, but not for mine?” Sophie asks bitterly.
I don’t dare turn to see their faces, but I can only imagine that Marcy and Vivian are doing their best to look politely disinterested. But then again, this is a wedding salon. Emotions must run high here. I’m sure they’re used to people crying on this couch all the time.
I swallow and try to stay calm. “That’s not what I mean,” I say.
“You’re getting everything you want,” she says, staring with red-rimmed eyes at the tulle ball gown pooling around my feet. “I just want . . .” She trails off and sighs heavily.
I can’t blame Sophie for how she feels. She’s right. I feel like my stomach is full of rocks. I can’t pinpoint the moment when I changed; that’s not how people work. You turn molecule by molecule until suddenly, you’re a different person. You’re the kind of girl whose ambition drives her to risk her company, her reputation, her own family’s well-being. I suddenly don’t recognize myself or my choices. I don’t like everything I’ve done recently, but I can take control of at least one piece. I can do one good thing.
“No, you’re right. This is important. Let’s give you that raise. And we’ll just find a way to increase our revenue somehow,” I say.
I know it’s the only appropriate decision to make, but it hurts to say the words out loud. More financial pressure is the last thing we need right now.
Her lip quavers. “Really?”
I hug her tightly. “Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can’t promise everything—I can’t guarantee that if you take the money, we’ll be able to make it up in sales.”
She wilts again.
“But I can promise you I’ll do everything in my power to make this business a success so that the risk will be worth it.”
&n
bsp; Her shoulders shake with a silent sob. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“I know you want a family more than anything. I’m not going to be the person to stand in the way of that,” I say.
“I don’t want to stand in the way of us, though,” she says, wiping away a sniffle.
I take a deep breath. I don’t know what else there is to say to her.
“We’ll make it work,” I repeat.
She peers at me through watery eyes and smiles. Then her face falls.
“Also, not to ruin the moment, but that dress is awful,” she says. “Go try on the one I picked for you.”
I do. And like magic, it’s exactly right. Sisters always know best.
• Chapter 12 •
After a hectic day filled with the most work possible, I feel restless—maybe I’m still on the adrenaline high of scoring a surprisingly beautiful wedding dress for free, or maybe I’m too nervous about my deal with my sister in order to relax. I don’t want to go home to crash in front of Netflix alone. Sophie has concert tickets to a tuba performance by one of Liv’s old marching band friends (I told her to not get too wild tonight), and Carmen has an emergency appointment with her dermatologist. I could reach out to some friends that I see less often, like Sasha or Caroline from college, but I’m not in the mood for catching up on the details of one another’s lives; it would just be an awkward reminder of how little I’ve seen them since launching Brooklyn Jewels. And the prospect of either lying to my friends’ faces about my engagement or risking exposure by telling more people the truth is exhausting. It used to be that whenever I felt antsy and ready to go out, I could take a quick spin through my dating apps and find a suitable suitor for the night. But with so much staked on Blake, I don’t want to risk catching feelings for anyone else.
So, that’s why I find myself walking into Golden Years ten minutes later. Raj is behind the bar. He does that head jerk bros use to greet one another—eyebrows shooting up, chin jutting forward, a smile on his face. By the time I’ve plopped onto a bar stool, he’s already poured me a Brooklyn Bel Air Sour.
“On the house,” he says, sliding it over to me.
“Again? I must’ve made it into your inner circle.”
“Eh, you’re okay,” he says, clearly joking. “On your own again tonight?”
“Yep. Didn’t feel like going home.”
I reach for my beer and Raj’s eyes bug out toward my ring finger.
“That’s some rock,” he says, letting out a low whistle.
I glance down. I’ve gotten used to wearing it, to the point where my blood runs cold whenever I realize it’s not on. It always takes a split second to remember I’m not really engaged.
“Thanks. I put it on for wedding dress shopping today. I actually got one.”
“Pics or it didn’t happen,” he says.
I pull out my phone and find the picture Marcy had taken just a few hours ago. I take in the image and get chills again; it’s unsettling to see myself as a bride. The gown that Sophie chose for me didn’t look like anything special when I had seen it in the binder, but in person, it suddenly felt just right. It has long lace sleeves, a delicate V-neck, and a modest slit up one leg that gives the sweeping skirt some movement. No tacky glitter or revealing cutouts in sight. I felt like myself in the dress—not like I was wearing a costume designed to appeal to my Instagram followers.
I spin around the phone to show Raj. He raises a brow.
“Whew. Lucky dude.”
“Ha! We’ll see if he shows up to meet me at the end of the aisle.”
He shakes his head. “You’re nuts. I love it.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says. “I didn’t have time at my last job. I mean, my parents are begging for me to settle down, but I haven’t found the right person yet. So, in the meantime . . .” He mimes thumbing through a dating app.
“I feel you.”
He drums his fingers rapidly across the wooden bar. “I, uh, was in a relationship a few years ago. I really thought we were happy together—and then she ended it.” He stops drumming and gives the bar a final smack.
I cringe. I get it. I’ve been there.
“Give me your phone,” I insist. “I’m going to find you someone. My friend Carmen works at Tinder and has given me all the inside tricks.”
He laughs. “Sure, do your best. Barely employed brown guy who’s five-foot-nine on a good day?”
“Okay, so we’ve had very different dating experiences. But let me try,” I plead.
He slides his phone across the bar and goes to attend to a group of customers. Once he’s gone, I toggle to view his profile. His bio reads, “Tech nerd, former startup guy, figuring out what’s next. Funnier in person,” and his photos are mostly group shots with his similarly hoodie-clad friends. In the last image, he’s leaning against a pillar in a sharp suit; it’s clearly a professional shot and looks like it was probably taken by a photographer at a friend’s wedding. I’m not going to lie, even with his sheepish smile, he looks good.
I dive into his list of available potential matches and start swiping. I have no clue what his type is, so I express interest in pretty much everybody. Aside from using dating apps for myself, I’ve only ever swiped for Carmen, Jess, Sasha, and Caroline. It never occurred to me what a different game this would be for a guy. I’m almost conditioned to expect a cheery, “It’s a match!” notification after every right swipe. Here, they rarely come. When one does—a match who looks strangely like me, even beyond the way that most twenty-something Williamsburg white girls look more or less the same—I find myself at a loss for words. I don’t know how to flirt with women.
Raj is back. “Find the love of my life yet?”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“Don’t I know it,” he says, checking out what I’ve done. He takes in the single, solitary match, and slides the phone into his back pocket. “Hey, so, I actually get off in a few minutes. I’m on the early shift tonight.”
I’m caught off guard by how empty the prospect of a night alone makes me feel. I like the easy comfort that Raj exudes.
“Do you wanna actually, like, hang out?” I blurt out.
Mercifully, the words don’t even have time to hang in the air before he responds, “Yeah, sure! What did you have in mind?”
Oh. I didn’t.
“Uh, you’re probably sick of hanging out here, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, this is basically the equivalent of my old cubicle.” He looks around and grimaces. “Not that I had an actual cubicle. It was all open floor plan—supposed to increase efficiency or some bullshit. Super startup-y.”
“Wanna come see my shop?” I ask. “I have a bottle of whiskey there and we can pick up a pizza.”
He laughs. “Those are the magic words.”
Ten minutes later, we’re on our way. I insist on paying for the pizza to thank him for all those free drinks. He protests, but ultimately hangs back when I hand my credit card to the cashier.
“Next pizza’s on me,” he promises.
I unlock the shop and bring Raj inside. When Sophie and I first rented the storefront, I used to savor this moment—showing friends the new space. It had felt so unimaginably adult, like the separate puzzle pieces of my life were finally clicking into place: I had a dream that was turning into a reality; I was self-employed, like I had always hoped I would be; I had a real brick-and-mortar store with gorgeous crown molding and light pouring in through the wide front window. True, I was also exhausted, cash poor, and constantly overbooked, but I had been so proud to show my friends what my sister and I had created for ourselves. I wonder how this all seems through Raj’s eyes, especially now that he quit his job in order to find something fresh and meaningful.
He wolf-whistles when he sees the shop. “This is legit,” he says, running his hand over the glass counter. “Where’s the jewelry?”
“Everything’s locked up,” I explain.
“Aw, I
’d love to see,” he says.
I bring him to the back and unlock the safes. We strike up a plan: he can eat the pizza as long as he doesn’t touch the jewels, and as long as he saves me at least two slices for later. Over the past two years, I’ve learned that most guys have no interest in what I do unless they’re trying to select a piece for their girlfriend or wife. Raj, on the other hand, asks detailed questions about our business model and the intricacies of the fine jewelry industry. I like explaining the difference between an emerald cut and a princess cut, and why a low-quality large diamond can wind up costing less than a high-quality small one. I always enjoy talking about jewelry—that’s one of the reasons I got into the business in the first place. He points out the pieces he likes, careful to keep his grubby, greasy hands far away from the actual wares, and honestly shrugs at the ones he doesn’t. A lot of customers automatically gravitate toward the largest, flashiest stones. Raj seems to prefer unusual designs and underused stones, like peridot and tourmaline. I like his taste.
When his knee brushes mine underneath the desk, I hold my breath as I move it away. It must have been an accident. He doesn’t seem to notice.
His phone vibrates noisily against the table.
“Can you open that for me?” he asks, hands full of pizza.
He recites his password between bites, and I tap open his notification.
“Oh! It’s from that girl! That Tinder girl.”
“Ha. Did you write to her or did she send the first message?”
“She did. She wrote, ‘Hey, how’s your day going?’ and used a smiley face emoji.”
“Eh, I’ll write her back later. This is more interesting.”
He peers back over a row of earrings.
Later, after wolfing down his third slice, he asks, “Is there a bathroom around here?”
“Actually, no, but there’s one upstairs? You can use the one in my apartment.”
“Cool, thanks.”
I take care to lock everything away in the safe again. He grabs the pizza box and I take the whiskey. As we wind through the shop, into the hallway, and up the stairs, I try to remember the last time I brought a guy back to my apartment. Blake certainly hasn’t seen it. Before him, I had gone out with a string of guys from apps, but none of them had made it past date two or three—either I had gone back to their place (always my preference) or we had avoided the bedroom entirely. I racked my brain. Could the last guy really have been Drummer Kevin? The musician from that gig Carmen and I had gone to in East Williamsburg? His sense of rhythm had been impeccable. (His breath was not.)
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