Page 36 of Just My Fake Husband

Chapter 12

River

I’m wedding dress shopping. For myself.

If you’d told me a week ago that I’d be in this position, I would have laughed at you. I still haven’t even been on a date in over three years. But no big whoop. I’m getting married, everybody!

On the drive to Denver, I use listening to Jana’s Top 40 music as an excuse to not talk to her about my upcoming nuptials.

Maybe it’s because I don’t want to think about it that my mind is going other places. This place of guilt is more familiar. My mind is like an old farm truck driving up a country lane, tires slipping comfortably into the mud-crusted ruts. It settles into thoughts of Skye and away we go.

My mind shows me thoughts of Skye walking away from me and through Caring Souls’ blue double doors. The sound of adeadbolt lock. My mascara stinging my eyes. A punch of grief to my solar plexus.

What kind of a sister am I? First, I have to sell the only home she’s ever known, and then I’m not even going to be living with her? Who’s going to make sure she’s got her playlists functioning properly—and that the rap music she listens to doesn’t have a bunch of questionable lyrics and themes?

Am I going to be able to tolerate not having her hugs and cheek smooches every five minutes? Will I even be able to sleep without her in the room next to mine? And I can pretty much guarantee no one at Caring Souls is going to be watching her water intake.

Why am I doing this again?

Because it’s the best thing for Skye, and she wants it desperately, I assure myself for the hundredth time. Because she’ll thrive being around other women she can identify with and mentors, teachers, and therapists who are experts. And because she walked out of the house to find her dog and wandered around the neighborhood, barefoot.

While I was rage flirting with my soon-to-be husband.

When I step into my fifth bridal gown in the dressing room of a shop in Denver, an explicable current of excitement dances over my skin. I’ve never worn a dress like this. The last fancy dress I wore was for senior prom, over nine years ago. This is so out of my element that I think about how Skye’s got the right idea. She’d prefer to wear her footie, zippered onesie pajamas all day every day.

But still, Jana gasps when I walk through the dressing room door and stand on the pedestal in this ivory lace, mermaid-style dress with a sweetheart neckline and long, elegant sleeves. I spin, catching my reflection in all three mirrors, feeling a zing of guilty pleasure. All I need now is something to wear on my head. Maybe a veil, maybe a jewel-encrusted clip.

It’s not real. None of this is. I’m not in love. I’m not marrying Gabriel because we’re crazy for each other.

But it’s fun to pretend. To dream. I’m out of practice on the whole dreaming front.

Jana jumps up from the sofa and claps, actual tears pooling in her eyes. “This is—” she can’t even finish her sentence, she’s so overcome. The shop lady is also putting her hand on her chest and can’t seem to find the words, either. A jolt goes through my body.

I feel like a bride in this. Like, if Gabriel were to come strolling in, I’d smile sweetly and confidently, knowing he was overcome with love for me. And I’d be overcome with love for him.

Dread pools in the pit of my middle. He’s not and I’m not. Still, wearing this has made the reality of what we’re about to do so painfully real, I might cry like Jana and the saleswoman.

I might cry like my mom would have if she were here.

She’d find a wadded-up tissue from her purse and laugh a little with embarrassment over the tears. But she would love seeing me in this dress. She would do a little happy dance. Everybody knows Skye got her dance skills from Mom.

“I don’t know,” I say quietly, once the saleswoman goes to help another customer. “This dress is too lovely for a farce, right? Like, I should save it in case I get married for real someday, right?

Jana steps towards me and points a finger. “No. I saw your face when you came out of the room. You feel it, too. There’s nothing like this dress.”

“It seems too nice, you know?” I say a little louder.

The saleswoman overhears and misunderstands. “Nothing’s too nice for a bride!” she says from across the room. “You deserve to love your dress. You’re marrying the man of your dreams, so wear the dress of your dreams.”

Jana and I exchange a look. We can explain nothing to her.

“I’m the one who drove you here and insisted we do this today. Doesn’t my vote count for something? Please, River.”

It’s true. She woke me with a knock on my door, a caffeinated beverage in hand, and convinced me to calm the bedhead and come with her to choose a dress.

“It’ll get your mind off of tonight’s big family event,” she’d said. “Or we can take the drive time between here and Denver and back to practice what you’re going to say to your new, fake-but-we’re-all-pretending-they’re-real in-laws. Either way has its benefits.”

In the end, we listened to Top 40 and gorged on Pringles and M&Ms. Probably not a good idea right before dress shopping, but here we are. At least we avoided talking about the in-laws.

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