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“It doesn’t matter,” Bailey says quietly, her eyes flicking past me to my mom, then back to me, color rising in her cheeks. “It’s just a dress.”
Maybe. And I know what Bailey’s not saying since my mom is here: it’s just a fake wedding. Or, since the paperwork will be real, a marriage on paper.
I suddenly find myself wanting to pull Bailey aside, to ask her if she wants it to be just that. Or if maybe it could mean something more. If this could be somethingreal. I know she was the one who said she wanted to keep kissing … but that doesn’t tell me everything I want to know. It’s not an answer to a question. More like a clue on a scavenger hunt. And I’m not sure exactly where it’s leading or how to decipher it.
But I won’t put her on the spot like that. At least not with my mom in earshot or even her friends, who I knowknow. More because I don’t want to put Bailey on the spot. To risk her face looking stricken as she finds a kind way to let me down easy and tell me it’s just about the money or just about helping me.
About anything but ME.
Even so, even if it’s just on paper, it’s a wedding. And she should have exactly what she wants.
“It does matter,” I say fiercely. Maybe more fiercely than I intended because Bailey flinches, then smiles again. The placating kind.
“We don’t have a lot of options,” she says. “Just with, you know, the time frame.”
“Elvis.”
I turn when Mom says my name—or rather mynotname—and she’s scooting forward in her chair. Immediately, I walk over and pick her up. I know shecouldstand. Shecanwalk. But I also am adept at reading her pain levels and can recognize when the pain is bad. When she’d rather I carry her, even if she won’t ask. Today is one of those days. Even after the chiropractor and massage therapy.
I walk her over to Bailey, trying not to notice how Mom feels lighter in my arms, like she’s lost more weight. Is she okay? Have I been so busy and preoccupied with my own issues that I’ve missed what’s going on with her?
“I know we don’t know each other well,” Mom says to Bailey. “Permission to speak freely?”
Smiling, Bailey nods.
“You’d make a gorgeous bride if we wrapped you up in white kitchen trash bags and used cheesecloth as a veil. But a wedding dress is about how youfeelin it. And I don’t get the sense that youfeelgood in this one. Is that a fair assessment?”
“Pretty much. But I don’t want to be picky or ungrateful, and I’m on a budget. If we had more time?—”
Bailey stops herself, and I know she realizes she’s stepping onto the thin ice of our lie. Because the reasons we’ve given everyone for rushing this wedding—the upcoming Appies tour, the fact that we justknow, and also, no, Bailey’s not pregnant—wouldn’t hold if anyone put their full weight on them. They’d crack right through.
Thankfully, my mom doesn’t focus on the time aspect of it.
“Please don’t try to tell me it doesn’t matter or that it’s picky to want the right wedding dress.” Mom pauses and purses her lips. “I have an idea,” she says, and a tiny stab of worry goes through me at those words.
When Mom says those words—and also when my sister says them—there is usually a very risky thought on the other side. Knowing Bailey, she won’t be able to say no.
“How would you feel,” Mom asks slowly as Bailey’s hands disappear again into the poufy fabric of the dress, “if money weren’t an issue and if you could have the dress of your dreams?”
I’m not sure where Mom is going with this, but I’d gladly pay anything for Bailey to have a wedding dress she loves. One which doesn’t look like a bird or a duvet.
I mean, unless that’s what shewants.
“I would love that,” Bailey says. “But?—”
Mom waves a hand, and for a moment I worry she’s actually going to cover Bailey’s mouth. Instead, she plucks Bailey’s hand from the depths of the dress and gives her hand a squeeze.
“Do you trust me?”
I see the struggle on Bailey’s face. She seems to be a people pleaser, much like I can be. People pleasers get a bad rap, but unless pleasing others comes at your own expense or you’re unable to ever say no, it’s a great characteristic. One of the things that draws me to Bailey, actually.
Her burnished honey eyes meet mine, as though looking for permission. I nod. Whatever idea this is might be a little out there, but I have no doubt that whatever my mom has cooked up will be amazing.
I can see the moment Bailey decides to say yes. It’s in the way her eyes soften, the tentative smile, the way she clutches tighter at Mom’s hand.
There’s something about my mom and Bailey, hand-in-hand, that just about does me in. I clear my throat, glancing away, only to find myself looking at a set of angled mirrors showing a reflection of us a thousand times.
“I do.”
