My Big Fat Fake Wedding(71)

Her affirmative answer doesn’t reassure me in the least. “Yes, step into it and pull it up a little at a time, working up your left leg an inch, then right, back and forth. Do you need me to come in and help?”

That sounds like the embarrassment of the century, so I decline and take a deep breath, telling myself that I can do this. I survived the corsets for the wedding dresses. I can survive this.

I step into the undergarment, and I’m doing okay until it’s mid-thigh, at which point I suddenly become hilariously knock-kneed. With my knees pressed together, my hips look ginormous compared to the tiny opening I’m trying to squeeze them into. I grunt and jump a bit, instinctively wishing that gravity would somehow make the too-much of me slip into the too-little of the spandex. To no one’s surprise, especially not physics, it doesn’t work that way.

I grunt and pause, needing a breather. God, I’m sweating and I still don’t have this damn thing on.

“How’s that coming, Violet? Would you like some help?” Britnay says from the other side of the door. To her credit, her voice is nothing but kind, but I know she must be able to hear my struggles.

I look in the mirror, having finally gotten the torture device up enough to create an even worse spare tire than I naturally have. Guess all that excess has to go somewhere. I look ridiculous and definitely don’t want anyone to see me like this, especially not barely-past twenty and barely-over-extra-small Britnay. “I’m fine. Just deciding if I like it,” I call out.

That’s a lie. I don’t like it. I hate it . . . a lot.

But I finish wiggling it on, repeating to myself, “It’ll be worth it. It’ll be worth it.” Lastly, I slip the red dress back on over the undergarment and step back out. “What do you think?”

Mom eyes me critically. “You look uncomfortable. Can you walk in that thing?” We both know she’s not talking about the dress.

I take a few laps around the small area in front of the mirror. I raise one eyebrow, looking at Britnay who promised miracles and magic. “The legs are rolling up, the waist is rolling down, and I can’t breathe at all. But that’s probably a good thing because if this were any tighter, it’d be giving me a wedgie so bad I could smell my own ass.” I turn, looking at the ass in question. Admittedly, it does look . . . smooth, I guess would be the word. But even as I shift from one foot to the other, it doesn’t move at all. It looks unnatural.

Nature . . . that reminds me. “How do you pee in this thing, anyway? Am I supposed to go through the hell I just endured every time? In a public bathroom, or worse in this case, the bathroom of my in-laws-to-be?”

Britnay shakes her head, smiling like I’m ridiculous. “No, of course not.” My relief is short-lived, though. “You pee before you get dressed and then when you get undressed. You just, you know, hold it in between.”

Nana screeches. “That’s not healthy! A girl will get an infection if she holds it that long. The things you young ’uns come up with, so unnecessary. Violet, go take that ridiculous contraption off and wear that dress the way God and my pasta dinners made you. Perfect.”

Usually, I think Nana’s overreacting and even overly dramatic, but in this case, I’m taking her advice to heart. I go back in the fitting room, wiggle out of the spandex contraption with a lot of difficulty, including some very unladylike grunts, and slip back into the red dress with just my usual bra and panty set on.

I turn to the side, examining my belly again. It’s not flat, but it’s not exactly round either. But if going au natural or going squeezed to death by a spandex boa constrictor are my choices, au natural it is.

“I think this is the one for me. Do you think the length is okay?” I ask, still worried about the amount of leg sticking out of the hem. I mean, Ross called me Chicken Legs for so many years that even now, knowing I’m worlds away from the twiggy pubescent I used to be, I’m still sensitive about my legs.

Britnay’s assistant comes to the rescue. “Here, how about this?” He’s holding a large patterned scarf, which he does some magician trick with and then ties it around my waist in a fluffy knot. It has the effect of an overskirt, flowing out behind me like a train. Britnay high-fives him and then adds a brooch pin to the center of the knot.

I look in the mirror and smile. “It’s perfect. Classy but sassy, appropriate but creative. Thank you so much!”

Once everyone has made their dress selection, Britnay brings over shoes and jewelry to complete our looks. We look stunning, each and every one of us . . . from the neck down.

Estella claps. “Bella! But please tell me we can move on to the spa now. I’m ready to get pampered!”

I grin as I think that while she might not have been trying on dresses, she’s been plenty pampered with champagne and the fancy brunch. But a facial and haircut do seem to be in order, so after changing back into our regular clothes and handing off our dresses to be delivered, we hit the spa.





Chapter 17





Ross—Saturday—7 Days Until the Wedding





I look out the window of the bedroom, high over the city below, which is full of activity. Cars jetting this way and that, people walking to destinations unknown, and tall buildings of glass that hide the chaos of work, even on a Saturday afternoon.