Page 10 of Pity Party

Esmé’s mouth forms an “O” of surprise. “I didn’t think you liked those.”

“Just trying to shake it up a little, you know?”

She nods her head. “You still want a latte?”

“Yes, please.” No sense going crazy.

What’s next, no patty melt and fries for lunch? I feel positively reckless. As I walk toward Bride’s Paradise, I pass a man walking with his daughter. They’re chatting away having what appears to be a grand old time. It makes my heart feel a pang.

My dad and I used to be like that, but those carefree moments vanished after the divorce. That’s when I became more of a mediator than a kid.Yes, Dad is making sure I eat my vegetables. No, Mom isn’t crying every night.I smile at the passing duo and hope they know how lucky they are.

I take a sip of my latte before putting it on the ground so that I can insert my key into the lock without spilling on myself. When the door is open, I push my way in and turn over the “Open” sign. Then I flip on the lights and mentally prepare myself for the day ahead. I have five appointments, which is a lot. Five brides-to-be blissfully excited about picking out a dress to marry their knight in shining armor. Five anxious women thinking that finding the right gown is a vitally important part of marital success.

After eating my scone, I consult the day’s schedule. When I make appointments, I find out what size the bride is and what her basic aesthetic is. That way I can pull out several options, so we have a starting point. This keeps them from being overwhelmed, which in turn keeps me from losing my ever-loving mind.

Shandy Phillips is my first appointment. She’s a size twelve and desires a princess wedding but doesn’t want anything too big and poofy. She’s only five-five and doesn’t want to look like a meringue.

I pull seven dresses that I think will fit the bill before my phone rings. It’s Anna. “I told Chris about the baby and he’s over the moon!”

I try to ramp up my energy. “Yay! I’m so excited for you guys.”

“Liar,” she accuses. Before I can tell her that I truly am happy for her, she says, “I started your Catch.com profile last night.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know you said you don’t want to use any of the apps, but I want to show you your profile before you say no.”

“You didn’t make it live yet, did you?” The panic coursing through my veins is almost electric.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Missy. I just want to show you how classy I’ve made it.”

“Send me the login info and I’ll look at it over lunch,” I tell her begrudgingly.

“I want to come in and show it to you in person. How about toward the end of the day?”

Before I can respond, she gets another call and has to hang up.

Even though I know Anna only wants what’s best for me, I still feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters desperate to find love. I envision myself squeezing my size eight foot into a size six glass slipper. Good luck to me.

Looking up at the clock, I catch a glimpse of the little girl I saw earlier on the street with her dad. She’s alone and staring at the window display with an expression of longing. It’s a look I know well. Until recently, I did the same thing every time I changed the display. I walk toward the front door and open it. “It’s a great dress, isn’t it?”

She startles before turning toward me. “It’s amazing! Do you work here?”

“I own the shop with my mom.”

The expression on her face freezes. “That must be nice.”

“Yes and no,” I say while offering a noncommittal shrug. “You know what moms are like. They can be real trouble.”

“Yeah.” Her face scrunches up as though she’s in pain. “Can I come in and see the dress up close? I mean, I’m obviously not going to buy a wedding dress. I’m only twelve. But can I look at it?”

I remember being twelve and in near raptures every time a particularly gorgeous gown came in. “I’d love to show it to you,” I tell her while stepping away from the entrance so she can come inside. I still have another twenty minutes before my first appointment.

As she joins me inside, she says, “My name is Sammy Riordan. I just moved to Elk Lake.”

“My name is Melissa,” I tell her. “If you’re twelve, that must mean you’re going into seventh grade.”

“I am. I’m really nervous, too.”

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