Page 39 of Game Day

It’s clear from her tone that quickly is equivalent to bad.

“I understand our wedding might seem to have come out of nowhere,” I start, “but sometimes life moves fast and it feels as if we’re barely keeping up. That doesn't diminish how much we care about each other. And we’re both so happy that you came."

She tilts her head. "Clayton is our only son. He means the world to us.”

The sincerity in her voice feels like an olive branch. I grab onto it.

“He means the world to me, too.”

A moment passes between us where I feel as if we have a connection. It starts a spark of hope deep in my chest.

With a tiny nod, she rises from the chaise and wanders toward one of the racks of gowns. The boutique is filled with whites of every shade: cream and beige, Chantilly and ecru. From the carpet to the walls to the gowns, everything is clean and soft.

“Brides overdo it with these layered monstrosities,” she says, stroking a layer of taffeta. Her words are quiet, as if she’s confiding in me and doesn’t want the store associate to hear. “They look like cake toppers, don’t you think?”

“Thank you for your patience!” the store attendant calls as a huge garment bag is marched out from the back.

She and another attendant work together to unzip the bag and pull out the gown. My breath catches again as I take in the fitted top, the delicate lace appliques covering the bodice, and the skinny straps that tie over my shoulders.The way the waist explodes into layers of tulle.

I go behind the curtain to undress, and they help me into the gown.

The first thing I notice is how it feels. It's soft and lush, every inch clinging to my body. It's light and airy, but whenI step out from behind the curtain and onto the dais, the skirt swishes around me. I love how I look.

"What do you think?" one of the attendants asks, but she's already smiling.

"It's beautiful," I murmur as I turn, admiring it from the side. Peering over my shoulder, I glimpse the low-cut back.

I feel like a princess.

No, a queen.

"Mother of the bride, what do you think?"

"Mother of the groom," Sandy corrects as she turns and does a double-take.

Her expression twists in a few different directions before she commits to one.

She hates it. Her lips are pressed together as if it takes everything in her to not say the words.

"What are you doing with your hair?" she asks finally.

"I was thinking of wearing it half up and half down."

"I meant the color. You're not planning to walk down the aisle with pink hair!"

Sandy says it as if she’s stating what’s perfectly obvious to any rational person. But when I don’t respond, her laughter dies.

The comment about my hair is what puts me over the edge.

I press my hands to my face.This is exactly why people elope.

“Excuse me?”

I open my eyes to find her staring in shock.

Her shock becomes mine when I realize I said it out loud.

There’s no taking it back. No playing it off as a joke.

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