Drop Dead Gorgeous(116)
Gee, thanks for the guilt trip, Doc.
Whatever else the doctor says fades off into the background as I watch Nana and Papa bicker through the glass window, happier now and blissfully unaware of the countdown looming.
In that moment, denial surges and I clench my fists.
This can’t happen. I won’t let it.
Six months to a year?
I can make it work.
Suddenly determined, a feeling of resolution washes over me as a plan formulates in my mind.
Don’t worry, Papa. I’m going to find myself a husband so you can walk me down the aisle on my wedding day before you leave this earth . . . if it’s the last thing I do.
Violet
“I still can’t believe it!” I squeal, wiggling my fingers and watching my engagement ring flash as the overhead lights reflect on the diamond’s faceted surface.
Having already heard this once, or maybe two dozen times, my two best friends sigh but rally with the appropriate oohs and ahhs, even throwing me a bone of another “Congratulations, girl!”
My lifelong bestie, Abigail Andrews, and Archie Hornee, my interior design assistant, are basically saints for putting up with me at this point. “Colin and I are getting married!”
Archie arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and presses a palm to his black T-shirt-covered chest, which is most definitely manscaped. Ever the sarcastic ball of sass, he deadpans, “Dear, we know.” He continues the performance by pulling a Vanna White, slapping a big fake smile on his face and gesturing widely to the roomful of wedding gowns surrounding us. When he finishes, his face goes right back to his usual blank ‘fuck off’ mode.
As if we’d be at a wedding dress shop for any other reason. Lord knows, Abigail and Archie aren’t looking to get married, and obviously not to each other since Abigail lacks a rather important piece of the perfection that Archie is looking for, a never-ending appreciation of his special brand of hilarious, off-the-cuff, don’t-care-about-being-politically-correct, catty-bitchiness.
So nope, not for them, for sure. We’re here for me! I can’t believe it’s really happening.
It’s been five months since Papa’s diagnosis, and what a busy five months it’s been.
Initially, I thought there’d be no way I’d ever get married before his heart gave out. After all, his doctor had painted a grim picture with no happy ending.
But despite the odds, Papa has miraculously held on long enough for me to reconnect with an old high school fling and get engaged after a whirlwind romance where we both said we wanted the whole nine yards—wedding, marriage, kids. Luckily, since Colin and I already had a history, it wasn’t starting at ground zero, and instead, we moved quickly after a short get-to-know-you-now phase. He’s a really good man, and I think we can be happy together.
Serious relationship, party of two . . . here! I think, adding a shimmy to my ass as I raise my hand, peering at the weighty sparkle resting there again.
But despite my excitement, the rows of gorgeous gowns, and two friends with a sharp eye for fashion, I’m currently trying on what has to be my twentieth wedding dress. Ride or Die Bride, an edgy bridal shop that calls itself the Number One Bridal Shop for the Modern Badass Chick, is failing to deliver a dress that is The One.
They’ve got everything from fairy tale princess to woodland nymph to Vegas stripper, mixed in with classic beauties covered in expensive lace and hand-sewn beading. My dress is here, I know it is. But in the three appointments I’ve made, I haven’t found it. Yet.
I need perfection.
It has to be. Everything about my wedding has to be perfect in order to do it right for Papa.
“I’m so happy for you!” Abigail declares, rushing forward and pulling me into a fierce hug. A moment later, I feel another set of arms wrap around me, Archie’s, and I’m encased in a group hug.
“Hey, guys!” I gasp as I feel my bridal shapewear corset, a marvelous invention that gives me the perfect hourglass figure, squeeze me to within an inch of my life. Any more and I swear it’ll crush my ovaries. “I know you’re both excited for me, but I can’t breathe!”
No one told me trying on wedding dresses and getting the right shape could be this painful. I thought it was come in, try on a few dresses, and after a few twirls and happy tears, be done.
“Shit, sorry!” Abi and Archie exclaim in near unison. As Archie jumps back, Abi tries to loosen my corset but fails as there’s too much dress fabric in the way. “I forgot how tight we had to pull it to get you into this thing.”
“I’d blame it on the pa-pa-pa-pasta!” Archie sings, doing a not half-bad riff on Blame It by Jamie Foxx, while measuring my curves through fingers held in a square like he’s a cameraman looking for my good side. His puckered lips and sharp brow remind me of Zoolander, and I’m waiting for him to say something about ‘Blue Steel’, but it doesn’t come.
Still, I can’t help but burst into laughter at his antics then gasp as the corset tightens even further. Shit, is this damn corset alive? “Hey!” I rasp, leveling a stern finger Archie’s way and defending the curves I was blessed with through a particularly short and fierce round of puberty. “I’m half Italian. Pasta, pizza, lasagna, and red wine are a way of life for me, okay?”
With zero apology, he traces my shape reflecting in the mirror, which is admittedly a little fuller looking in this unflattering white taffeta ballgown that’s a definite no-go. “No one’s commenting on your curvy figure, love. There damn sure ain’t nothing wrong with a little a junk in the trunk. Just look at Kim Kardashian.” He waits a moment and then adds under his breath, but still loud enough for Abi and me to hear, “Only in America can someone turn an ass and a sex tape into a multi-billion-dollar family empire!”