Always the Last Word (Always the Bridesmaid #4)(2)
Nor does it matter how many times I stress to her that Grant's not the stereotypical frat guy, Rachel never believes me. I mean, if Grant were like his frat brothers, he would never go after a girl like me; I'm nowhere near what most frat guys seem to want. I'm not blonde; my hair is what some would refer to as "mousey," I'd much rather stay in with a sewing project or an old movie than go out and drink and socialize, though I am completely fine with drinking while watching Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. I'm not thin or even conventionally pretty, despite what my mother tells me. About being pretty, at least. She has mentioned on more than one occasion that I could lay off the chips and queso as a dinner solution. She has also said that sunlight won't kill me, but it just so happens that I like being pale. If people think that I'm a well-dressed vampire, so be it. That was the in-thing five years ago, it'll be the in-thing again in another five years.
"Evie, you're my best friend and I love you. And I'm telling you that Grant is never going to commit. You're just making yourself miserable," Rachel says, and I think she's trying to be comforting.
I take the wine bottle from her and take a hearty swig. "I'm not miserable. And I've told you, I don't want a commitment anyway."
"That line may work on Grant, but I'm not falling for it."
It's true. Grant eats that line up. That's why we're still fooling around, because he thinks I just want something casual. He doesn't know I have ulterior motives that involve us actually dating. For now, though, I have to play the game. That damn stupid game of acting like I don't care when I care so much that I become mildly obsessed with making sure I don't come off as caring.
If Rachel were smart, she'd marry Carter tomorrow at the courthouse.
"You've got to stop hooking up with Grant; it's not good for you. You're head over heels for that asshat and he doesn't see you as more than just a hookup."
She's right, of course. Grant isn't in love with me. I don't think. Every now and then, though, he'll do something sweet or thoughtful, like order a veggie pizza for me or actually watch a movie that I recommend. And, I know those are little things, but they're sweet and maybe they do mean something, even if Grant hasn't realized it yet.
"So, what are you going to do for a job?" I ask, not wanting to think about my love life. Plus, I know that if I give her the opportunity, Rachel will comment that I would have never hooked up with Grant if I hadn't just lost my dad. She likes to point out that I needed a distraction from grief, and Grant happened to be a distraction that has gone on for far too long.
"I have a bunch of freelance work that will get me through the next couple months while I apply for jobs. I've already put in applications all over the place. Trying to convince business owners that it's a bad idea for their nephew or cousin to run their social media and websites is damn hard work."
"If you need it, Connie or Jamie would probably hire you to beef up their sites. I can float the idea to them if you want."
Rachel shakes her head. "Thanks, but I don't want you having to ask your boss for pity."
"It's not pity. Connie is truly terrible with computers. Jamie runs both her own company's site and the dress shop's as well. I'm sure she could use a break."
"Maybe." Rachel takes the wine bottle from me. "I think something will come up, though. I applied for every social media, graphic design, and webmaster job I could find. I have my resume floating all over this damn country."
"Country?" I echo. "I thought you and Carter wanted to stay in Bowling Green?"
"Well, yeah. I guess. But Carter's a writer. He can do that anywhere, as long as there's an internet connection and coffee." She starts to stand and, with a bit of wobbling and swearing, makes it to her feet. "Okay. I'm going to go sober up a bit before my boyfriend shows up. I'll restock your wine first thing tomorrow."
"Thanks," I say as she heads out of my apartment to climb the rickety stairs to her place.
She and Carter wouldn't actually move away, would they?
No, that's just the wine talking. Rachel would never move away. She loves Kentucky. Her family is here, as is Carter's. There's no way they'll move away.
Chapter Two
"It's horrible, isn't it?" the bride-to-be asks me as I clip her into a mermaid gown.
It's not the best gown I've seen, but that has nothing to do with the bride. The design is flawed and the material is cheap, yet it still costs a small fortune because of the designer label.
"Do you want to show it to your aunt and friends?"
She shakes her head. "I'd rather set it on fire."
"Fair enough." I laugh as I undo the clips on the dress.
"I'm sorry," she says, working her way back into a robe. She dabs at her eyes and sucks in a ragged breath. "I just … Without my mom here, I'm totally lost."
Connie warned me before the appointment that the mother of the bride had passed away and suggested that I trade off appointments because of my own dad's death, but I refused. He passed away a little over a year ago and I knew that I was going to run up against this scenario eventually. I need the practice.
"Don't apologize. It's okay to feel lost. My dad passed away recently, and I know how difficult it can be to adjust," I say with a smile. I pose my favorite dress trick. "I have an idea. Think of your absolute favorite dress from a movie."
"Any dress?" she asks, and I nod. After a moment or two she answers, "I don't know. I like that pink dress Marilyn Monroe wears in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes."
"I love that movie!" I say, far too excited by the fact that another twenty-something knows of the film. Of course, my love for it stems from the costumes. I refrain from mentioning that Travilla, the head costume designer of the movie, had to sew Marilyn Monroe into one of the film's dresses, or how he was the designer for Marilyn's white dress that fanned out over a subway grate in The Seven Year Itch. It's been mentioned on more than one occasion that I am prone to gush about film costumes, and it has been suggested that I dial my design knowledge back when assisting brides with their wedding gowns.
The bride rattles off a few more film favorite dresses - Audrey Hepburn's iconic black dress from Breakfast at Tiffany's, the green dress from Atonement, and pretty much every dress worn in Pride and Prejudice - before I leave the dressing room, promising to come back with at least one dress that she will love.
Thirty minutes later, I have the bride in an ivory column sheath gown that she adores so much she can barely turn away from her reflection in the mirror. Her aunt and friends are surrounding her, sharing their mutual admiration with how well the dress suits her just as her father walks in the shop. His eyes are watery as he sees his baby girl in her wedding dress. A horrible pain squeezes around my heart with the knowledge that I will never experience this moment with Dad. If I ever do get married, my twin brother Hank will walk me down the aisle and, while I love my brother, it just won't be the same. I take a deep breath and try to focus on my appointment.
"Dad? What's going on?" the bride asks as her father hands me the shoebox.
"I thought it might be a nice touch for you to wear your mother's veil at your wedding. I asked your aunt and she made the arrangements with your dad," I explain as I remove the shoebox lid.
I take the veil from the box. It's a bit roughed up, but nothing I can't easily fix. I'm just thankful that it matches the gown so well.
Before I can ask if the bride likes the idea, she has me in a tight bear hug. Over her shoulder, Connie gestures at me to come see her once this appointment is over.
"I can't believe I didn't think of this. Oh, this is perfect, Evie. Thank you so much," the bride says.
"You're welcome," I reply. "It's all in a day's work."
Once I have the appointment wrapped up and a dress sold, I tap on Connie's open office door. As usual, Connie is plugging away at an ancient adding machine, complete with paper roll. Jamie, who is also Connie's niece, has been pestering her for the past two years that she should embrace QuickBooks or, at the very least Excel, but she refuses. She likes the numbers right in front of her.
"You did really well with that appointment today," she says.
"Thank you," I say, taking a seat across from her desk.
"Did you do the movie dress thing again?" she asks, a knowing smile on her face.
"In my defense, it's a tried and true approach." I smile. "Everyone wants to feel like a star on their wedding day, and if they're wearing a gown that reminds them of their favorite movie … "
Connie raises one of her hands to stop me. She has listened to me talk about the importance of costume design on stage and screen more than anyone else and, frankly, I'm impressed she hasn't fired me for my obsession. It does get mentioned in every employee evaluation, however, and not in a necessarily flattering light.
"You have a lot of heart, and people like that." She shuffles papers around on her desk and I catch a glimpse of a dress sketch. Before I can stop myself, I've reached out and snatched the drawing up in my grubby little paws.