Page 31 of Bridesmaid to Bride

We look on as he untwists the hanger with a dexterity that suggests he’s done this before—probably during one of his more inventive moments at his family’s shop.

“Voilà,” West says, holding up his makeshift lever—a hook bent at a peculiar angle. “This will do it.”

“Should I be scared or impressed?” Paige eyes the contraption.

“Both,” Skye answers.

“Ready?” West positions the hook beneath the zipper’s pull tab.

“Hit me.” Paige braces herself against the dressing room wall.

“Oh, can I?” I keep a firm grip on the top of the dress.

“Here goes nothing.” With a careful tug of his wrist, West tries to coax the zipper down. It doesn’t move. “Come on,” he says, his voice low and steady.

“Don’t rip it, West.” My fingers pinch the fabric near Paige’s shoulder blades.

“I know, Manhattan.”

“Stop, West,” Skye says. “This isn’t working—we need to reposition. Paige, down you go.” She helps Paige lie on the floor face down. The dress’s beaded bodice glimmers under the fluorescent lights—reminding us why we can’t destroy what must be a gazillion-dollar gown.

Skye grabs the bottom; I pull the top, and West, in all his awkward glory, straddles Paige like she’s an exquisite white steed.

West clears his throat. “Sorry in advance for any butt smooshing.”

“Okay, team, on three,” Skye says. “One, two—”

“Three.” We pull in synchronized chaos.

West’s hands are steady, but he’s concentrating so hard he sticks his tongue out as he wields the hanger-turned-zipper-lever. It feels oddly intimate, this three-person operation to liberate Paige from her satin prison. Through the tension, I can’t help but notice how the muscles in West’s arms flex, how his dark eyes are flecked with determination. And for a fleeting moment, I wish it were my clothing he was so intent on removing.

“Damn zipper, move!” Sweat dots my forehead. This is more intense than any courtroom showdown. It gives a reluctant creak, inching its way along the track as if deciding whether to comply or launch into full revolt.

“It’s giving!” West says as the metal teeth grudgingly part ways. The sound is a symphony of relief.

“Keep going, West, you’re doing it!” Skye cheers.

“Thank God for mannequin dressing skills.” I breathe out. “Who needs Groomsman to Groom when you’re Houdini?” I say, though I bristle at the thought of him parading on that reality show, winning hearts right and left.

“Focus.” Teeth clenched, West is zeroed in on his task.

And in that instant, I realize we’re more than just a bride and her entourage wrestling with a dress; we’re a team, united against a common enemy—be it stuck zippers, doggie disasters, or our own tangled emotions.

“What other on-the-job skills did you acquire?” Skye’s laughter bubbles to the surface.

With one final tug from West, the zipper yields, and Paige is freed, collapsing into a heap of relieved sobs and cascading tulle. We fall around her, a tangle of limbs and emotions, the absurdity of our situation not lost on any of us.

“Look at you. Already training for menopause when you’ll gain thirty pounds overnight.” Skye helps Paige off the floor.

I brush a strand of hair from her damp cheek. “Even now, you’re still the most beautiful bride that ever was.”

“Thanks, twin sister.”

The seamstress peeks her head in. “I can add extra material on the sides of the zipper. It’ll be like this never happened.”

“See? There’s always a solution.” I exchange a look with West—a silent promise that no matter the challenge, we’ll tackle it together.

“Extra material?” Paige sniffles, her mood lifting like fog. “Like, expandable?”

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