My Big Fat Fake Wedding(84)

Weston walks a full circle around me, then holds my arms out wide in a T-shape and eyes my chest, waist, and hips critically. He doesn’t seem deterred by my rather curvy figure but rather seems to be visually measuring me. I’d bet he’d be able to get with a quarter-inch if he guessed my measurements.

“Okay, let’s begin,” he says, letting my arms go and turning to his rack of bagged garments. Like a magician, he opens one and pulls out a white fluff of fabric. “This one will highlight your small waist and give adequate support for your breasts. The bottom is a full ballgown silhouette, perfect for the grandeur of the church.”

It looks like a stunningly bedazzled cupcake, but at this point, I’m willing to try anything.

Weston helps me into the gown, and I turn, facing the large mirror leaning against the wall. It is beautiful and dramatic, but it doesn’t feel right. Weston can see it on my face and quickly suggests that we move on.

I like that he’s not offended by my lack of gushing because I know he’s worked hard to hand-select these gowns for me. He just pulls out the next, and then another. And then one more.

None of them are it.

“If you’d not been so picky before, we wouldn’t be dealing with this now,” Archie mutters, but he smiles when I look at him. “I’m sure you’ll find something.” His tone implies that’s not remotely true at all, and we both know it.

Weston opens a bag, shoving it aside, but something catches my eye. “Oh, my God, that’s it!” I exclaim.

Three sets of eyes follow my pointing finger.

Weston hums. “If you’d like to try it on, ma’am, then of course. However, I will caution you that it’s a silhouette designed for a willowier body type.” He eyes my full breasts with concern.

I clap and say definitively, “I want to try it.”

He pulls it out of the bag with a flourish. It’s beautiful, with a flared crystal-encrusted skirt and a pinched waist, but best of all, lace shoulders and sleeves that will let me look both sexy and classy. “It’s called The Fairy Tale, an inspired blend of Kate Middleton’s dress and Grace Kelly’s iconic gown.” Weston’s voice is wistful, as if this gown is his favorite too.

Hesitantly, he helps me step into the gown and then slowly, he pulls it up my thighs. I slip my arms into the delicate sleeves and he fastens the tiny buttons at my back.

I turn to look in the mirror. It’s . . . not perfect, I think with a sigh. But I so wanted it to be. My face falls.

“I thought this was it, but I look like a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing. And my boobs are flatter than pancakes.” I can feel the tears hot in my eyes. I haven’t cried in so long, it seems, not truly. Not since Papa’s last spell, but this dress not fitting me the way I want it to has done me in.

Weston hops to my side, biting his lip. “Perhaps something could be done?” He looks me up and down. “Your foundational garments are not compression. They make significantly more powerful pieces that could help because you are not that far off from it fitting properly. But unfortunately, there’s no room in the seams to get added inches.” He’s being kind by saying I’m not far off, but it’s a good size, maybe more, too small.

Archie snorts. “Compression? I think you need ratchet straps.” I glare at him.

“I could do that, I guess,” I say about the hated spandex of death, nodding even as I remember being stuck in them before. “They almost killed me when I tried them for the gala, but for this dress, I’ll do it.”

Weston lowers his voice as if he’s imparting secret wisdom, “If you’d rather not, have you heard of the keto egg fast? It’s hardcore, at least six eggs per day, plus a little cheese or butter, coffee and water, but that’s it. Definitely not sustainable, but you should read up on it and see if it might be a very short-term fix.”

Archie’s already clicking away on his laptop. “Got it. You should try this and the Spanx. Uh-oh.” He stops reading and looks up. His lips are tilted up at the corners. “This says that one of the side effects of the egg fast is hellacious farts. Guess you’ll be blowing the mystery wide-open there with lover boy.” He pitches his voice high, “Happy wedding day . . . brrrrrupt . . . oops, was that me? Tee-hee-hee.” His dry delivery makes it even funnier, but I don’t dare stroke his ego and let him know that.

I roll my eyes. “Eggs and Spanx I can do for the waistline. But I can’t exactly change my boobs.” I rub my hand over my chest, accustomed to the soft flaring out, and then back up my chest. In this dress, it’s just one smooshed-flat surface.

Weston smiles. “I can definitely fix that.” He moves closer and gestures to the lace at the top. “I’ll alter this part so that it’s more of a portrait-style neckline. That’ll show off your collarbones and give you and your breasts room to breathe.”

My heart soars, and I look in the mirror once again. Abi steps to my right, Archie to my left. “Violet, are you saying yes to the dress?”

I can feel the tears rolling, because of this dress, because of this moment, because of the wedding. It all feels like what I’d dreamed it would really be like. But I choke the tears down with a reminder once again . . . fake, fake, fake.

So I force a big ,toothy grin and say, “Yes to the dress. And eggs and Spanx, I guess, too.”