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I knowI can’t be the only guy who dreamed about his wedding as a kid.
It’s not like I went so far as to try on tuxes the way girls might try on dresses. I’m not even sure where my concept of weddings came from—cartoons, maybe?—but for me, this involved setting up the guests, who were primarily stuffed animals and action figures. Sometimes a few tanks or race cars. The officiant was an oversized nutcracker Mom kept out year-round on the kitchen counter. For a long time, I thought it watched over the kitchen, particularly the sweets I tried to sneak out of the pantry.
The main part of this pretend wedding for me was the wife. Who I decided was too important to be played by any of my stuffed animals or things we had around the house. My wife was always invisible—an imaginary, backlit blur of white. I didn’t picture hair color or eye color or any clearly defined features.My pretend wife was the kind of vision you’d see if you were squinting with water in your eyes.
Now, that blurry vision moves into startlingly clear reality as Bailey steps out of a curtained dressing room.
I don’t mean to gasp. Hopefully only Mom heard me.
Forget it. I don’t care who heard me. Or who sees me stumbling to my feet as Bailey hesitantly takes a few steps toward me, her smile soft and slow like a whispered secret.
“Wow,” I breathe. “You look …”
Words fly behind my eyes like the numbers on a stock ticker, too fast for them to make their way from brain to mouth. I’ll be honest—I don’t even see the dress.
A giggle bubbles out of Bailey, and her eyes shift to the floor. “I look ridiculous.”
“No.” The word fires from my mouth, a single machine gun round.
Bailey stops just in front of me. Close enough to touch, but I have my hands closed into tight fists and can’t seem to loosen them.
Would Bailey want me touching her anyway? What’s the protocol here? Is she even big on physical touch like I am? The list of things I don’t know about my fiancée is growing like some endless scroll. I wish I had more of a sense of what she wants from me.
I wish I knew more clearly what I want from her. From us.
But seeing Bailey in a wedding dress …
It’s like all those childhood moments of playing pretend are finding their culmination here. Even though this isn’t the actual wedding but a bridal store. And even if the actual wedding won’t be the normal,actualwedding. Even if we’re saying vows and Bailey is wearing a dress.
For the first time, I actually look at the dress. Then frown. Then realize I’m frowning and attempt to smooth out my expression.
“Oh. It’s …” I trail off, trying to decide how to describe what Bailey’s wearing. Which is very … “Fluffy. Like a down comforter.”
I hear a snort from behind me and am not sure if it came from Mom or one of Bailey’s friends. Bailey bites her lip, but she’s holding back a smile.
“Not that it’s a bad thing! Comforters are great! Soft and puffy and you just kind of want to snuggle up in bed with them?—”
The snorts become full-on guffaws. Sweat prickles along my hairline and the back of my neck. “I didn’t mean?—”
When Bailey touches my arm, my mouth clamps shut. Even through the fabric of my shirt, the brush of her fingertips has an immediate impact. I stand up straighter and my shoulders pull back. I feel like even the little hairs on my arms are standing at attention.
“It’s okay, hockey player.” Bailey’s smile is easy and genuine. “I knew what you meant. And it does look like a comforter.”
She looks down, then presses both hands into the skirt of the dress. They disappear inside the fabric. She giggles. “I wonder how many things I could hide in here? Probably a lot. So, that’s a plus. Like a Mary Poppins dress.”
“But do youlikeit?” Mom asks, and Bailey glances up, still smiling.
“No,” Bailey all but whispers, like we’re holding this conversation in a library or inside of a church. “I really don’t like any of them.”
“This is an improvement over the bird of Frankenstein dress,” Shannon says, circling Bailey and giving the puff of white on her shoulder a little pet, like it’s a dog.
I raise my brows. “A bird of Frankenstein dress?”
“You don’t want to know,” Bailey says. “Just picture a dress this terrible but … feathery.”
“Um.”
I rock back on my heels, suddenly feeling unsure what to say or do next. The thing is—I don’t care about the dress. I mean, this one is definitely a little odd. But when Bailey walked out, I wasn’t paying any attention to the dress. The mere idea of Bailey wearing a wedding dress to marryme, thinking of Bailey walking toward me down an aisle just like all my stuffed animal scenarios—that’s all I care about.
