“My wedding is going to be in black and white, I swear to god, because this shit is ridicu-” Gretchen fussed with the swishing tulle gathered tightly at the knees by decorative red lace. Apparently she was a last-minute addition to the wedding party, and so her dress had to be fitted on the fly. And sitting in a corner, beaming at them as if it were her own wedding, was a frizzy-headed blonde named Maylee who was currently being stitched into her bridesmaid’s dress. There was Gretchen’s sister Audrey, who was a pale, freckled redhead and heavily pregnant. There was Gretchen, a shorter, curvier woman with screamingly red hair that almost clashed with her dress, except for the fact that she was the maid of honor, so her mermaid-cut gown was more white than red. There was herself, a six-foot-one Nordic blonde. “My hips keep spreading.”Ī woman ran over with pins in her mouth, kneeling at Audrey’s side as Marjorie gazed at the lineup of Brontë’s bridesmaids. “I think I need this let out a bit more on the sides,” Audrey said, waving over the dressmaker.
“Oh, you’re so full of shit,” Gretchen began, only to be elbowed by the pregnant one again.
So she adjusted the bow on her behind again and nodded. Brontë was spending a lot on her wedding, and Marjorie didn’t want to be the one to kick up a fuss. Apparently they’d been custom-made by a fashion designer, and the price of just one dress cost more than Marjorie would make in months. Truth was, all that red and white made her look a bit like a barber pole with a bow, but Brontë had worked long and hard to pick out dresses and had paid for everything, so how on earth could Marjorie possibly complain? She’d seen the price tag for this thing. “I love it,” Marjorie lied, casting a brilliant smile at Brontë. “What do you think of the dress, Marj?” Her eyes were and trying to convey a hint that the other woman was just not getting. And you do too.”Īgain, she elbowed her sister and turned to Marjorie.
Audrey elbowed the not-as-nice redhead next to her, who was her sister. “Not at all,” said Audrey, who Marjorie knew was the extremely pregnant, nice one. “Do you guys really hate the dresses?” Brontë asked, wringing her hands as the women lined up and studied their reflections in the mirrors. “We look more like cupcakes than bridesmaids.” “Fucking awful,” said the redhead next to her in a similar dress. Marjorie Ivarsson adjusted the bow on her behind and craned her neck, trying to look in the mirror at the back of her dress.
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