Page 4 of Hold Still

McKenna

I TUG ONthe side zipper of my dress, but no matter what I do, I can’t get it to go up. Rose is over in the corner putting the finishing touches on her wedding ensemble. She looks magnificent, as usual. I, on the other hand, am about to be the slumpy maid-of-honor if I can’t get my dress zipped. I’ve tried to lay off the pastries, but I needed something to help me get through all the uncertainty with Mom.Sweets are better than a crack habit.

The door opens and Emilie Dubois, the French supermodel with a heart of gold that prevents me from hating her, floats into the room. Of course she floats. What self-respecting supermodel wouldn’t float? She heads toward Rose with an envelope in her hand.

Knowing my dress is a lost cause, I admit defeat, scrunch the fabric in my hand and head over to the pair. “Emilie, can you please help me?”

“Sure.”

I point to the window and we leave Rose alone with her envelope. “I put on a few pounds since the final fitting.”

“No worries. Let me see what I can do.” After several attempts—I hold my breath as she pulls the zipper up with surprising strength—she manages to get the dress zipped. “There. How does that feel?”

I inhale. Oh. My. God. I better not eat anything during the reception. Or breathe too deeply. Can’t let on, though. It’s not her fault I’ve been overindulging. Moving back home will do away with anyone’s food resolutions. Not that mine ever were too strong.

“Good. Thanks so much!” I flip my hair—the only part of me that doesn’t feel like it’s about to pop off my body.

Ignoring the mass of dark brown hair falling around my shoulders, Emilie traces the part I dyed specifically for the wedding. “White?”

I nod. “I needed something demure for the occasion.” Knowing demure isn’t in my vocabulary, we burst out laughing.

From the other side of the room, Rose lets out a sob. Emilie and I look at each other and rush to her side. She waves a handwritten note—the opened envelope Emilie gave her in her other hand.

My eyes bounce from the letter to Rose’s face. “No crying! It’ll ruin your makeup!”

“He’s so,” sniffle, “amazing! Listen to what he wrote.” After Suzanne—holding her little daughter, Emma, who’s serving as the flower girl—joins us, she reads, “My dearest Rose, you are making me the happiest man today. I can’t wait to go to bed and wake up together for the rest of our lives, sharing the happy and the sad. From our night in college to today, you have been there for me, even when I was too stupid to realize it. I impatiently wait for you at the altar to declare to the whole world that I am yours. All my love, Cole.”

My hand covers my mouth and I realize I’m mirroring Emilie’s and Suzanne’s postures. What would it be like to find someone who loves me like Cole loves her? My reality tamps down such sentimentality. Who am I kidding? After Matt, true love isn’t in my vocabulary, either.

Rose’s eyes fill with tears again. I reach into my pocket—the reason I bought this dress—and wave a tissue in front of her face.

“Here. Let me.” Emilie grabs the tissue and dabs the tears, then fixes Rose’s makeup. Having a supermodel around sure is handy. After a few more touch-ups, Emilie declares, “There. Perfect.”

Rose smiles like everything is right with the world. I truly am happy for her—even knowing her happiness won’t ever be mine. Matt made sure of it. At least he’s locked away in prison.

Emilie clears her throat. “I think my work here is done. I will go take my seat and await your perfect day.” Emma races around in a circle and claps as Emilie leaves us for our final minutes of Rose’s singlehood.

Looking at my beautiful bestie, I say, “You’re so lucky, Rookie.”

She smiles at my use of her college nickname. I pluck the tissue out of her hand and dab at her cheeks. On a sigh, she says, “I know. I can’t believe this is really happening. Pinch me.”

I tweak the soft, fleshy part of her hand, and then wink. Leaning in, I whisper, “I think it’s real.” We both giggle.

“I would say this is your last chance to back out, but you’re a lost cause. I knew you were a goner when we reconnected in that suite in Las Vegas”—I leave out the part about the suite belonging to the utterly off-limits Ozzy Martinez—“and now you’re a bride.”

“I know. Can you believe it?”

Suzanne joins us, keeping one eye on her adorable, yet rambunctious, two-year-old. “I’ve never seen Cole like this with anyone, Rose. You saved him from living the whole shallow rockstar life.”

“He saved me, too. He made me live again.”

The wedding coordinator enters the room and announces it’s time for us to line up. Since I’m the only attendant besides the flower girl, I’m up first. I turn to Rose. “I’ll see you at the altar. I’ll be the one next to your man with the big, sappy smile on my face.” As we hug, I whisper, “So happy for you.”

I mean it. I am ecstatic for her. Because this won’t happen for me doesn’t mean I don’t want my friends to find and experience love. And Rose deserves all this happiness after everything she’s been through. I grab my bouquet of roses and lead us to the double doors.

The music changes and the sound of people turning in their chairs indicates it’s time for me to make my entrance. “See you on the other side, Miss Bloomer.”

I strut my stuff up the aisle, carrying my bouquet at hip level just like the coordinator told me to do. My nude stilettos are killer with my midcalf deep orange dress, if I do say so myself. Even if it’s a tad too small. Trying to forget how the dress feels—it’s better to look good than to feel good—I smile at friends I haven’t seen in a while and new ones I’ve met.

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