The Lies That Bind(71)

“You’d have to go to the Netherlands for that.”

“No. You and Noah will have to go to the Netherlands for that,” I say.

Scottie gets a little grin on his face, the way he always does when I bring up Noah. “Maybe we will,” he says, flipping the channels even though the television is muted. “And hey, maybe I’ll even let you plan my bachelor party.”

    “Wow. You really can see yourself ending up with him?” I ask.

“Oh, who knows. It’s way too early for that. But I can’t stop thinking about him….” He gives me a funny look, then says. “Is that how you felt?”

I stare back at him, frozen, unsure whether he’s talking about Matthew or Grant. The truth is I wasn’t like that with Matthew, even in the beginning—not like I was with Grant. I admit this to Scottie now.

“Yeah,” he says. “You were obsessed. But you have to remember—obsession isn’t love. It just feels like love.”

“I know,” I say, feeling a wave of sadness.

Scottie looks at me as he puts his hand on my arm, jostling me a little. “Hey. Remember what I said at Pete’s. Okay?”

“What’s that?” I ask, looking at him.

“You’re marrying a guy who loves you.”





The following day, Scottie, my mother, Jenna, and I set out to shop for wedding dresses. Amy was able to secure only one appointment—at Vera Wang. But she tells us to start our day in Brooklyn at the legendary Kleinfeld, which offers a huge selection at bargain prices and requires no appointment.

Even though we arrive early, just a few minutes after their opening, the shop is already swamped, with hordes of brides grabbing dresses from racks. The whole experience is stressful at best, downright unpleasant at moments, especially when I’m overcome with another dizzy spell that I try to hide from everyone. The worst part is I don’t love a single gown; they all make me feel like I’m playing the part of a bride in a movie. So I throw in the towel.

From Brooklyn, we take the subway to the Upper East Side, then walk over to Vera Wang on Fifth Avenue. The second we walk in, I see a glass case of the most gorgeous crystal tiaras and get unexpected goosebumps. This is the stuff of fairy tales, I think, or at least wedding fantasies. These dresses will be far too expensive—but I tell myself to enjoy the experience.

“Oh my God. This place is the bomb,” Scottie says under his breath as we check in at the front desk. We wait for our bridal consultant, a woman named Linda, who instantly recognizes our Midwestern accents and tells us that she, too, is from the Heartland.

Linda leads us upstairs, and a moment later, we are getting settled in the most lavish dressing area, being offered mimosas and champagne. Everyone accepts, including me—with plans to give Scottie my glass—and we begin to peruse the gowns. Linda asks me to point out anything I love, but encourages me to keep an open mind about all styles. “You really have to try things on,” she keeps repeating.

    For the next two hours, I try on more than a dozen gowns in every style, from chic, simple sheath dresses to the most poufy Cinderella ball gowns with freakishly long trains. I try chiffon, silk, crepe, satin, organza, lace, tulle, and even ostrich feathers. Every dress is beautiful, but, like at Kleinfeld, nothing stands out to me. That is, until I get to the very last one—a simple silk empire waist gown (just as Amy predicted) in a Regency style that reminds me of something straight out of a Jane Austen novel. As Linda zips me up, my mother gasps, my sister tears up, and Scottie reads my mind, calling me a modern-day Elizabeth Bennet.

“What do you think?” Linda says. She’s looking at me intently, the way she has with every gown so far, poker-faced until I’ve stated my opinion.

“I love it,” I say under my breath, thinking that the dress, with its cut, would definitely still fit in January, maybe even February or March.

“Oh my God,” my mom says. “You have to get it. I don’t care how much it costs. Your dad and I will make it work.”

“It’s actually not too bad. There’s no beadwork or lace, which keeps the cost down,” Linda says.

I’m sure it is that bad—but in my mind, I’m already making concessions on venue, flowers, and photography to make up for it.

“I have to say—this is the dress that your stylist predicted you’d love,” Linda says. “And boy, was she right.”

“Your stylist?” my sister says. “You have a stylist?”

I shake my head. “No. I mean, she’s a stylist, but she’s not my stylist. She’s just helping me. As a friend.”

    “Who is she?” my mother says, always wanting to keep track of all my friends.

“Her name is Amy,” I say, glancing nervously at Scottie before adding that she grew up with Matthew.

“She’s such a lovely girl,” Linda says. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s doing okay. She’s really strong….I think she’s been distracting herself with work,” I say, feeling guilty for having questioned her diving into wedding planning so soon after losing her husband. “And teaching yoga.”

Fortunately, my family doesn’t ask what we’re talking about, and Linda just says she’s glad to hear it. After we chat a bit more, I change back into my clothes, and Linda leads us downstairs. When we get to the front door, I tell her again how much I appreciate all her help and that I’ll be in touch soon about the dress.