A tap comes at the door. That was fast.
"Come in."
A clean-cut woman in a pantsuit shuffles in with a broad smile, Theresa close behind. She has a wristband of pins and a fabric pencil.
"You mind if I take a look, dear?" she asks, and I nod, but I really think by "take a look" she means "feel you up," since the first place her hands go are directly to the ladies. It's the only action they've had in months.
"It's a little tight along here," she mumbles to herself, drawing lines across the undercurves of my breasts. "And here. Super tight here. We'll need to take it out here. And probably a few inches here."
Her hand has made it to my ass, and I feel like a lard-filled balloon by the time she's done. She pulls up a calculator on her phone and clucks her tongue. I look at Theresa and wonder if I look as bloated as I feel.
"Okay, with all the alterations, it'll be an extra $525."
I drop to my butt.
And hear a loud riiiiip.
Pantsuit woman cringes and says, "Make that $565."
I'm going to have a meltdown right here in the ripped dress that is no longer in my budget. I never thought I'd be one of those brides. I wanted to be completely chill. Yeah, this dress doesn't fit, but that's okay! But it's not okay. I'm so exhausted and I want things to go right, and just when I think they are they don't … like Landon losing his hours and my fat ass not fitting into this dress and Landon's mom hating me and Landon taking seven Mississippis to squeeze my hand and who even knows if I'll get a honeymoon and why the hell can't I function without sex, or is it the sex at all or is it just me and I'm too immature to deal with this shit and all I want right now is a slice of strawberry rhubarb pie and a million dollars to rain down on Landon and me in the middle of hot, sweaty orgasm city.
Theresa sits next to me on the floor, and I don't know where the woman went, but she's not in here.
"There are a lot more dresses out there," she says. I don't reply. I'm too busy gazing down at THE dress.
"Okay, we're going to try one more thing." She gets up and walks from the dressing room. I look up into the mirror and see that I've morphed into Blubbery Boob Bride, dress ripped open at the seam, love handles forcing the zipper open, but my ass still looks good. Good on you, ass. You keep that up.
Theresa comes back in, tearing into a bright pink package that looks like she bought it from an infomercial.
"What's that?"
"Spanx. Supposedly it sucks you in a few inches."
THE dress is off me as fast as I can wriggle myself out of it. It's a whole different ball game squeezing myself into the tummy-tucker material, jumping up and down, spreading my legs, dancing and jiggling, and accidentally elbowing Theresa in the nose when I lose my grip.
"Sorry!" I say breathlessly. Her eyes water as she helps me into the last little bit of the material.
"Can you bend over?" she asks, laughing at my boobs that are now so perky they almost touch my chin. I lean down and touch my toes, and while it feels like the Jaws of Life are squeezing me from the inside out, I'm able to move around.
"Miracle material," I say, trying to pinch and snap the Spanx, but that's not happening. Theresa grabs THE dress and helps me in, and the tear is still there, but we can get the zipper to almost the right place. Feelsy lady comes in and does alteration measurements once more, but even with the skintight suctioning underpants, it's going to cost a fortune.
After the news, I say goodbye to THE dress, pay for the injury I gave it, and Theresa comes in with six other choices, all my size, all in my budget. It takes me ten minutes to get out of the Spanx, and it feels a bit like when you pop open cookie dough from the can.
I could really go for some peanut butter chocolate chip.
I text Mom the amount for the deposit on the dress-because I don't feel like committing just yet to dress number 2, but I also don't want to miss out on the sale-and check out of there before I'm forced to look at myself in any more mirrors.
Theresa does me a huge favor and doesn't talk about the wedding pictures, THE dress, my parents, in-laws, or the lack of sex, and lets me listen to S Club 7 on volume 10 as she drives us back to our apartments.
"Do you want company?" she asks when we step onto our floor. "I can cancel on Greg tonight."
"Cheesecake Factory guy?"
She nods, and I shake my head. I want to veg in my pjs and watch something funny.
"I'm good."
We hug and I drag my butt down the hall, wishing I could eat the pack of M&M's in my purse without feeling like a whale.
I open the door and pause … because Landon is doing a pull-up right in my face. He's not wearing a shirt. Of course.
"You're home," I say. I could've sworn he said he was going to work on his movie tonight.
Landon nods, dropping from the bar. Sweat drips from his overgrown, dark hair. He needs a cut, but I know he hasn't asked because of how anal I've been about the bank account.
"Jace said a girl was heading over." He nods to my empty hands. "Where's Theresa? Does she have your dress?"
I shake my head. "She has a date tonight." I don't say anything about the dress, completely tempted to cover my poochy stomach. I wonder if the no-sex thing is hard for him at all now that I'm spilling over my jeans.
"You mind if I watch a movie?" My eyes flick to the TV. I need a distraction. I need Family Guy or Big Bang or something with Jim Carrey. Anything to take my mind off of today.
"All yours," Landon says. He dips down to grab his water bottle, his shorts loose on his waist enough to see his back dimples. Once he's locked himself in the bathroom, I hurry to my dresser and swap my too-small jeans for stretchy yoga pants, and the shirt that doesn't cover my love handles for one of his. I feel full of some type of thick liquid as I settle into the couch cushions in the living room, chocolate-free. But damn, do I feel like I need some as my eyes linger over the weight set, the pull-up bar, and the sweat towel Landon left on the exercise bike.
I shake my head, push back every ounce of frustration rolling behind my eyes, and snap the TV on.
Counting Crows plays softly out of the speakers. Of course I have to turn the TV on Cruel Intentions. And there's Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe kissing deep in the airport, about to scene-switch to the bedroom.
My legs twitch, and I know I have to change the channel before I see it or I might just start humping the coffee table. My fingers fumble on the remote, which ends up falling to the floor. The tempo in the song increases while the scene changes, actor on top of actress, character on character, sweaty bodies and moist lips and-
"Liz, are there any towels in the dr-" Landon stops dead in the hallway, eyes locked on the screen. My mouth runs dry. Landon remains frozen, all but the one bead of sweat that inches its way down his temple. It's crawling across the skin by his ear. It hits his jawline … that sharp, clenched jawline, and I blink. The clock ticks. Moans ripple from the sound on the TV, and that bead falls off his face …
"I'm going for a walk," I all but shout as I push to my feet. Landon gives me one short nod before I head out the door without a jacket and let the brisk November air wash over me.
Chapter 20
"Eight more weeks. You made it eighteen years, Liz. You can handle eight weeks."
I was ignorant those eighteen years. I didn't know how amazing sex is.
"You can't flake out. You never stick to anything. You can do this. He should be the one giving in. He's a guy! He said it himself."
It's driving us both crazy. Maybe we should just do it and things'll look up. Or at least I won't be as stressed about it.
"Weddings are always hard. Sex won't change the fact you can't fit in your dress. It won't change Landon's hours. It won't convince everyone that you're ready for marriage."
Honk!
I jolt back to the sidewalk, not even aware I'd left it. The guy in the blue Subaru that almost hit me flips me off as he passes. A girl hanging outside the coffeehouse to my right laughs and offers me a puff of her cigarette. I politely wave her a "no," not only because I don't smoke but because I won't even share ChapStick because of my fear of herpes.
Though smoking, I've heard, helps with stress. And will help me lose weight. In a moment of complete confusion I make my way to the convenience store with a pack on my mind, but then I remember that not only will Landon be incredibly pissed if he smells smoke on me, it's also a ridiculously expensive habit. And I have about two bucks till payday.
"Ugh!" I growl to myself as my feet switch direction and head back home. "Can you seriously not function without sex, Liz? It's like you're a chimp!"
"I'm sorry?" a lady on a bus bench asks, pulling her earbuds from her ears. "Are you talking to me?"
I shake my head and wave an apology, quickening my pace.
I am in engagement hell. If only I could convince Landon to cheat just a little bit, then maybe I could erase at least some of the tension. Even if it won't solve a damn thing, I'd at least get my clitoris to stop yelling at me every time he says something romantic. Or smiles. Or exists.
Yeah, a little finger action should be doable. It's not like we're having sex sex. Just making it so we both get through hell with our heads.