My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,89

it’s all the same to you, I’d rather save what soft-stepping I’ve got for your wedding.” He looks at me so sweetly, love radiating from his eyes to mine.

Guilt slams into me, but that’s what I’m doing all of this for. To give this man, the only father figure I’ve ever known, the dream he’s always wanted. The dream I’ve always wanted too.

“Of course, Papa. Stay home and rest. You can meet the Andrewses next weekend at the wedding,” I tell him, patting his hand.

Mom holds up her mimosa, the one I made sure was more orange juice than champagne, and toasts. “To my baby girl. It might have taken you a while, but I think good things comes to those who wait. And Ross is a very good thing.” She giggles as she sips at the drink, but the oddly girly quality to her speech has me thinking that maybe even the weak version of her drink is too strong. I pass her another mini quiche and then hold my own up, cheering with them so she’ll down some protein in the form of egg and bacon yumminess.

“Thank you, Mom. Ross is great,” I agree.

The dress shop assistants—yes, there are two of them for our small group—swirl back in with a rolling rack of dresses, sections separated by plastic tags with our names written on them. They carefully carry the dresses into fitting rooms and then turn to us with congenial smiles.

“Ready?” Britnay asks. That’s not a typo or a misspeak. She’d told us quite clearly that her name wasn’t the usual Brittney, ‘No Brittney bitch jokes here,’ she’d pleaded, but ‘Brit-nay’ with the long a sound. My mom apparently wanted me to suffer,’ she’d said with a shrug and a wink.

As they roll call each of us, and I say a silent thanks for my rather unusual but normal name, we enter our assigned rooms. “Look through the ones we’ve selected and choose your favorite. We’ll have everyone come out at once, like a show and tell moment. We’re happy to help with any buttons or zippers.” She looks to Nana and Aunt Sofia, obviously thinking they might need a little assistance.

I appreciate the top-notch level of customer service, especially since neither Britnay nor her assistant, whose name I never caught because I was so stuck on Britnay’s, are stuffy and formal. Their casualness makes this whirlwind seem not-so-crazy.

We spend the next hour trying on dresses and coming out to see each other. Estella, who volunteered to stay home with Papa and doesn’t need a dress, gives critique and applause as we swish in front of the mirror.

Finally, I try on a beautiful red number. It’s short, which I definitely didn’t expect for a gala, but Britnay assures me that it’s very on-point for the season with the heat coming in for the summer.

When I step out, my eyes jump to everyone else. We all look so fancy! “I love that one, Mom!” I tell her truthfully and smile as she turns this way and that, checking herself out in the mirror.

“I think I’m done,” she says happily.

I look to the mirror, checking myself out. “I don’t know about this one. It’s a lot of leg and so bright.” I turn sideways, pushing the small pooch of my belly out and lamenting, “I need to cut back on the pasta before the wedding.”

Britnay chuckles. “No need to get that drastic, dear. I can help with that.” She disappears for a moment and returns with a swatch of nude spandex. “Put this on.”

I pop back into the fitting room and take the red dress off, hanging it up temporarily. I eye the spandex, which looks ridiculously small. “Uhm, Britnay? Are you sure this is my size? It’s literally the width of my thigh, not my waist.”

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