Page 87 of Seale the Deal

Do you think we got too many antlers? Remi opens the beyond giant bag from the craft store.

Yes, Ruger and I say in unison.

Remi narrows her eyes. You’re both wrong.

We continue through the mall, weaving around families, tourists, teenagers, and shoppers carrying bags from stores I haven’t seen since leaving Vancouver. While I love the smell of ocean air in Alpine Harbor, there’s something deeply nostalgic about recirculated air that sometimes carries the scent of fries. The other nice thing about being here is that nobody knows Ruger and I are engaged, which means we don’t have to hold hands or pretend like we’re counting down the days until we’re husband and wife. After last night, the break is welcome. Unfortunately, distance isn’t helping as much as I hoped. Every time I try to let myself forget he’s there, I hear the rumble of his voice or catch a glimpse of him, and a wave of desire washes through my core, making me squeeze my thighs a little tighter.

Are we done shopping? Ruger grumbles, trailing behind us.

You said we should come up here, Remi argues.

I just wasn’t expecting I’d have to approve which antler wineglass looked most wedding-friendly. ‘Pure white or cream,’ he says in a terrible imitation of Remi’s voice, and I stifle a laugh.

They were in the one-dollar bin! Remi protests.

Yeah, ’cause they’re ugly.

Remi clicks her tongue. Well, you didn’t have to follow us around the mall, she says. You could’ve gone and looked at camping gear or something.

I did, he argues. For two hours.

Remi waves him off.

What’s next? I ask, adjusting the bags cutting into my fingers. Food?

Remi stops walking. Wedding dresses.

Ruger and I both freeze.

Wedding dresses? he asks flatly.

You know, the white thing your future wife wears when she walks down the aisle?

He shoots her a look. I know what a wedding dress is.

And this, Remi says, dramatically throwing her arms up in front of a store window, is a wedding dress shop. Shall we?

Ruger groans, and I can’t blame him.

I don’t exactly have money for a wedding dress, I say. Remember? I brought something for the big day.

We’re not buying a dress, she says. We’re just getting inspiration. I know a great thrift store not far from here if you decide you want a gown.

I can get inspiration online, I say. I literally have an app that lets me take a picture of a dress and then suggests alterations, fabrics, and helps me build a pattern. Technology is amazing.

Remi’s shoulders drop. If you really don’t want to, we don’t have to.

I’m starting to realize this isn’t about actually finding a wedding dress. This is about having the wedding experience with her best friend. She wants to look at dresses and debate colours, maybe even tear up when I walk out of a fitting room wearing the perfect gown. I can’t say I blame her because the more I think about it, the more I realize this whole fake wedding has become a strange stand-in for something that may not happen for either of us. Remi chose her career over finding love, and I chose an asshole who was never going to marry me. Now, we’re well into our thirties, both in a place where marriage isn’t a top priority. And when will it be? Now we’re being somewhat forced through this experience, and Remi’s seemingly determined to get every ounce of fun out of it.

Fine, I say.

Remi brightens. Really?

Yes. But— I point a finger at her. —I get final say on the dress. Even if it means me wearing the cotton one I brought.

Fair, Remi says, nodding, then claps her hands excitedly. This is going to be great! Come along!

Remi bounces into the shop with her giant bag of antlers like she’s the one getting married.