Page 81 of Sideline Play

Pointing at my shirt as I unwind my scarf, she probes, “What about a princess style or maybe something Bohemian?”

“Um… maybe. I honestly don’t know. I just know I want feminine, soft, not overly trendy. More classic and timeless but not boring.” Then glancing at the dresses again, I ask, “Is it okay if I just go look?”

“Of course!” she answers brightly. “Will your fiancé be joining us, or will you be going the traditional route of, ‘It’s bad luck to see the bride’s dress ahead of the wedding?’”

Already on my way to the dresses, my mind zeroing in on the hunt at hand, I stop and turn back to the shop’s entry, stretching up on my toes in case I somehow missed Remington’s tall frame amongst all the frills, commenting, “You could say our line of work makes us a rather superstitious bunch so no, he won’t be seeing it beforehand. Where is he…?” When the only man I can see remains to be my dad, I slowly respond, “He’s not here,” and it slowly dawns on me that she's not talking about Remi.

Eyes wide, I shrilly shout, “Oh my God, no! He’s mydad!” at the same time he identifies, “Dad, I’m her dad.Notthe fiancé. Dad, father, giver of life.”

Hand to her chest, cheeks rapidly going from a creamy ivory to pink to red, Stacey profusely apologizes, “I amsosorry. I just assumed. We don’t often get a lot of fathers coming in to shop with their daughters and when we do, they certainly don’t look like you.” With elegant fingers stretching across her pinched forehead, she swears, “I’m usually much more professional than this,” her earlier bubbly presence zapped.

“Um, thank you?” my dad asks, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks towards the ceiling.

Wanting to erase the moment from my mind with industrial grade bleach, I say, “So dresses?”

“Right this way!” Stacey jumps, clearly as eager as I am to pretend this didn’t just happen. Walking us over to a cozy corner with two arm chairs positioned around a small dais and a tri-folded mirror lining the wall, she offers, “You can leave your coats here while we search. Colt, if you wish, you can take a seat or dive into the fray with us.”

Already pulling off his leather jacket and unzipping his hoodie, he stretches his neck from side to side and cracks hisknuckles while jumping in place as if he’s psyching up to take the mound.

“Oh, I’m coming. We’re gonna need all hands on deck in order to findthe dress.”

“You’re really into this.”

“Certified girl dad since ‘03,” he answers. “I can braid hair, paint nails, marathon romcoms, and shop ‘til I drop with the best of ‘em.

“Now the grand slam of dresses would be pink, tulle or tulle-like, shimmer or some sort of sparkle, and either strapless or off the shoulder.” Stopping his warm up, he claps his hands together and in full skipper mode, says, “Now, let’s do the damn thing,” leaving Stacey and I both behind as he stalks off for the first collection of pink wedding dresses like a predator with its prey locked in sight.

Four dresses. That was all it took. And had I started with the single dress my dad pulled for me, it would have been a one and done situation. But he had insisted I try on the ones Stacey and I pulled before his because he didn’t want me to feel obligated toward his selection.

Even off the rack, its fit is amazing. The bodice cupping and molding to my body as if the dress had been expertly crafted and tailored specifically for me. The drop and flow of the skirt, light and movable while remaining voluminous and structured. And the color… he found the one dress in the whole showroom that is a dead ringer for my favorite shade of pink.

Standing in front of a wall covered in white silk flowers, my dad holds our two champagne flutes in one hand. His other is draped over my shoulder and his head is tucked down to mine as he kisses my crown, hiding his red rimmed eyes. In my own, I hold up my gown, safely ensconced inside a viewless dress bag, smiling from ear to ear.

Shifting ever so slightly, Stacey takes several more pictures before slowly pronouncing, “That should do it,” handing our phones back to us. “Tell me what you think.”

“Perfect; thank you,” we say, parroting each other. “And thanks for all your help,” I add.

“Colt did all the work. I merely supplied the merchandise and manned the zippers and trains.”

After another small round of thanks and chit chat, we’re back out on the street, my dad taking over carrying my dress for me as we head to my car.

While we were inside, winter seemed to have come and ferociously pushed fall out of the way. Overhead, dark, heavy clouds loom, banishing the sun and making an overcast sky. The wind has gone from crisp and refreshing to sharp and biting, drawing the people still out quickly into the safety of their cars or the stores and restaurants. And they have the right idea because only two doors down fromEver After Bridal,the skies open up, enhancing the wind’s blistering sting with knife-like droplets of rain that slice through the atmosphere to make landfall on my skin like paper cuts.

Still, the literal rain that falls around me can’t dampen my parade. I’m filled to bursting with buoyant, uncontainable giddiness. My heart is huge and warm as my mind flits between imaginations of how Remington will react when he sees me in my dress. Sees me as his bride. It’s that word—bride, Remington’s bride—as it wraps around me that has my feettaking up a mind of their own, leading me to begin dancing to a romantic, lilting melody only I can hear.

I’m floating on air as I twirl with my arms out wide, my laughter mingling with the rain as I smile up at the clouds. It’s complete, undeniable, wholly fulfilled happiness that I feel. A happiness that more and more becomes my norm thanks to Remi’s love.

It’s the hopeful sort of happiness I felt when I kissed him for the first time. The dreamy kind of happiness that came when he slipped and said he loved me. An all consuming happiness like when we shared our first date and he proposed. The addicting, intoxicating, body shattering happiness that comes when we make love.

It’s a life changing happiness. One I never thought to even try to find. Was too afraid to try for, until him.

Unable to help myself, I announce, “I’m getting married!” twirling again, my hair sticking to my face. And once it’s out there, it’s like a burst dam. I can’t stop the words even if I wanted to as I repeat, “I’m getting married!” running up to my dad and kissing his cheek, laughing from the overflow of excitement.

Then, pulling out my phone, I tap on Remi’s name and wait for him to answer my FaceTime call as my dad opens my car door before getting my dress safely inside.

“Hey, Scar; how’s it goin’?”

Not even the sight of him shirtless with Winnie napping between his legs as they’re stretched out on the couch—something that usually stops me dead as my imagination runs away with ideas of him laying like that with our baby on his chest—can deter me as I rush out, “Go online and file for a marriage license. We’ll meet you at whatever clerk office is open today to sign the paperwork,” in lieu of returning his greeting. “I have a dress.”

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