Page 65 of Writing On The Wall

“He did?” I gulp, trying to sound nonchalant when I’m entirely too eager for her answer.

She leads me over to the sofa, and I’m grateful once again for her steadying hand, sparing me from a potentially serious accident. The slight twinge on my side serves as a reminderthat a fall in my condition might have turned this posh boutique into a horror-movie set.

“Oh, yes. It’s been ‘Ivy this’ and ‘Ivy that’ ever since y’all started on that house. I’ve never heard him talk about a woman so much. That’s why I was puzzled when Ember mentioned you having a boyfriend. But it all makes sense now.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, sparking my curiosity and tempting me to dig for more information, or perhaps even to confide in her. Either way, this subtle hint that she’d approve of her son dating me feels like a crack in the tight seal of my stifled-emotion jar. There’s a newfound longing for someone to recognize how hard I’m working to hold all the pieces of my life together, for someone I can trust to keep my secrets and not to abandon me later.

I look up at Jeanie with a hopeful expression, but I can’t bring myself to speak.

“Well, for the record, this mama would only be too happy if somethingwereto happen between you two,” she adds with so much genuine warmth that I’m basically a puddle in my seat.

But those old wounds are too hard to ignore, and I find my usual self-deprecating bit spilling out before I can stop myself. “That’s sweet of you, but I’m a mess. And Ethan needs someone fun, someone who can roll with his sense of adventure. We wouldn’t be a good fit.”

Even as I say the words, they feel like a crushing betrayal of my true feelings. But they’re responsible words, ones that will protect Ethan from getting caught up in my disastrous life. He’s already infiltrated it too much, and I’m worried that letting him see some of the uglier parts will only trigger his genuinely good nature and throw him into fix-it mode. But my life is much more complicated than a home reno.

Martha Jean interrupts us before Jeanie can reply to inform us that Ember will be out in a few minutes. She seems to lock inon me as a potential customer once she finds out I’m an unmarried spinster, but I nearly snort in her face. I’m lightyears away from needing a wedding dress or ever being able to afford one from this store, let alone the tissue paper they use to stuff the boob areas.

She continues explaining all the benefits of investing in one of their gowns, and all I can do is nod politely. But then we reach that awkward moment when I suddenly can’t decide where to direct my gaze while she speaks. It feels weird to fixate on just one eye. The forehead? No, that seems odd, too. Maybe shifting my focus to the side will reset things. I offer a bored nod accompanied by an aloof “mh-mm,” then take a sip of my drink while stealing glances at the dressing rooms.

I return my gaze to Martha Jean, hoping she’s gotten the hint. But the unease persists as she goes on. Should I alternate between each eye?Just pick an eye!

Finally, Ember’s dressing room curtain opens, saving me from internally combusting because I can’t remember how to look at someone. Fretta, who’s been paging through a bridal catalog the entire time, finally sets it down, plastering on a proper smile. Ember gracefully steps onto the pedestal, adorned in an ivory satin empire-waisted gown. Each of us expresses our admiration of its beauty, but I can tell from the expression on my friend’s face that thisisn’tthe one. It’s lovely, undoubtedly, but what Ember truly deserves is a dress that exudes understated brilliance, one that doesn’t vie for attention with flamboyance or resemble a flashy prom dress.

We all play along, anyway, clapping excitedly and repeating the process twice more. It takes one more equally underwhelming dress from Fretta’s preselected rack before I decide to intervene. “Mrs. H., Jeanie, why don’t you two grab another drink. Ember and I are going to browse the gowns for a minute.”

“Oh, of course.” Jeanie adds a wink that tells me she knows exactly what I’m doing. “The bride should have the chance to pick out her own dresses, too.”

I love her even more for having Ember’s back. In truth, the bride is the only one who should be choosing the gowns she’d like to try on. But try telling that to Fretta Hayes. I return a grateful smile, leading Ember forward to sift through a rack of dresses.

Then my butt vibrates, and I pull out my phone to read another text message.

Ethan

Woman, will you please stop wearing heels?

Seriously, are you okay? Your stitches all intact?

A delightful warmth builds in my chest as I read Ethan’s message, spreading like honey through my veins. It seems Jeanie has been busy giving updates. With every one of Ethan’s gruff displays of concern, the struggle to ignore my feelings for him grows all the more difficult. I’m finally beginning to understand the reasons behind his bossy demeanor, to see the tender, caring soul lurking beneath the grouchy exterior. He’s not grumpy. He’s genuinely concerned about my safety and well-being, sort of the same way my other friends care about me. He just wants to help me, like Toby does. Except Ethan might want to kiss me, too.

I blow out a breath and slip my phone back into my pocket. “Okay, sanity check, how’re we doing?” I ask Ember, yanking my thoughts back to the present.

“I mean, I expected some of this from her, so I’m doing okay. But I just want to get married. I don’t care about all this stuff,” she gestures around us.

“Let’s pretend we’re in a thrift store, and your perfect dressis hidden amongst these racks. It’s preowned, pre-loved, and waiting for its second debut.”

Ember’s lips lift, revealing a slow smile. “Thanks for being here, Vee.”

“Of course. Now enough of the morbs, we’ve got a dress to find.”

We navigate through the racks until we finally arrive at a section boasting dresses that seem more aligned with Ember’s taste. “I think I’ve spotted a couple of viable options,” she remarks. Martha Jean, seemingly attuned to our conversation, promptly materializes at our side to swiftly whisk away the two dresses Ember indicates.

As she emerges from the dressing room, I pull the stylist aside. “Martha, the jazz music is truly delightful, but this isn’t my girl’s vibe. Considering we’re the only ones here, do you think we could switch it up to something a little different? Something a little more upbeat for our bride?” I gently suggest, and a spark of enthusiasm flickers in her eyes at the prospect.

Taking my place between the mothers, I applaud eagerly as the lively beats of Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” fill the air, courtesy of the store’s speakers.

“Oh, Ivy,” Fretta remarks, rolling her eyes. But there’s a hint of amusement in her exasperated sigh. It seems the ice queen is beginning to thaw, after all. While I’ve never been her favorite person and thus managed to keep my distance, Ember’s mom has admittedly shown a newfound effort to be more cordial, maybe even friendly, over the past few months.

Ember reemerges from the dressing room just then, a whole new expression lighting up her face. Fretta and Jeanie share in the palpable shift, and together we release a soft, synchronized “ooh.”

She bops along to Shania as she steps onto the pedestal. This time, genuine joy dances in her eyes.

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