Page 29 of Bridesmaid to Bride

“Awesome.” I exhale, relief washing over me. I guess Eva’s holding up her end of the bargain, not that it surprises me in the least. She always pulls through with more than expected in her end of a pact. But I better finish strong, so I smile at Darren, saying, “Now I have a question for you. Can one wear Vans with a tuxedo on national television?”

Darren smiles. “We might be able to work something out.”

As I stand, I feel like I might actually have a shot at this. “Thanks again. I’ll be waiting by the phone, ready for my close-up.”

As I leave his office, I can’t help but feel like I’ve leveled up—not just in Darren’s eyes, but in my own. And as far as my parents’ store, this really would be a game-changer. Right now, I’m also working on a few backup plans. I’ve gotten in contact with Sniffly Steve, an old high school buddy who played D&D with me, and now manages a bank. I’ve asked him if he’ll let me co-sign a loan with my parents to get them back on their feet, so he’s checking on that. I also tried developing a keyword click campaign for Toys ‘n Joys, but the corporate porn companies out-maneuver me at every turn. They simply have more dollars and more resources. So I think that’s out. But as a last resort, I can sell my condo. My cousin Riley and her husband live in Atlanta, and they told me I could live in the guest house over their garage for a while. That wouldn’t be too bad.

But still—this is by far and away the best option for my parents, not to mention me too, because I’d really love to find my person. I’m ready.

My phone buzzes. It’s Eva.

Eva: MARSHMALLOW. Need backup. Can you come with me to the bridal shop on Main Street?

I type a quick response.

Me: On it, give me 5. And thanks for the interview, Manhattan.

My text zips out into the ether.

Eva: Of course—I knew you’d nail it. And a pact is a pact.

14

The Lockout

EVA

Ibarrel through the bridal shop door on West’s heels, both of us huffing. Skye is in a velvet sweatsuit, looking like she’s ready to smack Paige if only she could get to her.

“Thank God!” Skye waves us over to the dressing room. “Paige can’t get the zipper down, and she won’t let us help. You gotta talk some sense into her.”

“Paige,” I squawk at the door, tapping a stiletto against the plush carpet. “It’s a freaking zipper.”

“Hey, zippers can be real bitches,” West mutters.

“Thanks, West.” Paige hiccups. “Right?”

“We can’t help until you let us in.” I push up the sleeves of my blouse. Time to go into sister-saving mode.

“We need soap.” West is scanning the room. “I’ll go to the bathroom.”

“I’ll get it,” Skye says. “You two just work on Paige.”

Paige sniffles. “If you pull too hard it’s going to ruin the dress.”

The seamstress comes over to me, whispering, “I’ve told her I can take the whole zipper out. She won’t listen.”

I rap on the door again, more sharply. “Paige, honey, this is about more than the zipper. What’s going on?”

“Eves!” Paige’s voice is muffled by what sounds like a ball of Kleenex. “This thing is a freakin’ Victorian corset! I must’ve gained a lot of weight.”

“No way,” I shoot back. “I’ve seen you naked, unfortunately. And if anything, you’ve lost inches.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m being hugged by a boa constrictor?”

“There obviously was a mistake.” I lean against the door. “But we can’t deal with that until you let us in.”

“No.”

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