“I’m here for the long haul,” he whispers into my ear.
His words comfort me—I can tell how much he wants to mean them. But is he staying because it’s the right thing to do, or because he wants to spend the rest of his life with me? Last time, I’d been so caught up in the wedding planning that I’d made it easy for him to convince himself that my love had faded too, that he had been doing us both a favor by ending things before we were legally bound. But the difference this time is that I have fought like hell for it—but is the sentiment still the same? Should it be this hard?
“Me too,” I whisper, all at once terrified to go back in time and start over again, but even more scared to stay and try to make something out of the mess I’ve made here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The first time I saw my wedding dress, it didn’t look like much on the hanger. But I’d been drawn to it anyway—I’d loved the gray sash wrapped around the waist that tied into a bow in the back and the way the organza felt between my fingertips. I’d handed it to the sales associate and figured it would most likely be one of the dozens I’d end up rejecting, because, as Jules and I agreed on our way into the boutique, who finds the dress on the first day she starts looking? Between the anxiety of finding the gown and the fact that my pear-shaped body didn’t cooperate with a lot of styles, I knew the odds were stacked against me. But when I’d stepped onto the platform in front of the three-way mirror, Jules walked up behind me and nodded her head, and we’d both started to cry before falling into a fit of giggles, because we were officially those people we’d made fun of so many times on those bridal reality shows.
As my mom and I walk into the boutique for my final fitting, my breath catches at the memory of being here for my final fitting last time, when I’d still been wearing my engagement like it was a neon sign above my head. I catch my reflection in one of the large mirrors as I pass through the showroom and hardly recognize the look in my eyes this time.
I’m still not sure why I decided to come here, why I didn’t post the status that would send me back further in time after I got home last night. I had sat on the toilet in the bathroom, clutching my phone, unable to press my finger down, determining that I needed more time to figure out why, despite all of my efforts, Courtney and Max remained intertwined in each other’s lives. Maybe the only way to prevent them from falling in love would be for them to never meet—for me to go back in time to before I first introduced them. A twinge of concern tickles the back of my mind—would the universe have them meet another way if I didn’t facilitate it?
I had also thought that seeing myself in my wedding gown one more time, feeling the way the fabric swayed as I walked, memorizing the way it made me feel to pull it up around me, would help bring me clarity. But as I stood here now, I was unwilling to believe that my decisions didn’t hold any weight. What about free will? I imagined there were going to be some pretty pissed-off philosophers when they heard about this development—that some things may be predetermined, no matter how much we try to change them.
“I can’t wait to see you in your dress,” my mom says, her eyes brimming with tears as she watches a young redhead walk into the back room to retrieve my gown.
“Are you going to cry?” I ask, pulling her down beside me on a pale pink velvet-covered bench.
“Maybe just a little.” She smiles, blinking back the moistness in her eyes and hugging me tightly. “I’m just so happy for you. They say the day your little girl gets married is one of the best of your life.”
You didn’t get to enjoy it last time, I think, recalling the look etched on her face as Max told everyone there wouldn’t be a wedding—the disappointment coupled with sadness had only added to the pain I was feeling.
“Here it is,” the redhead says cheerily, presenting it to me as if it’s one of those giant checks you receive when you’ve won the lottery. “You can try it on in there,” she says, and points to a white beveled door in the corner. “Champagne?” she asks, and my mom and I say yes in unison.
I grip the padded hanger tightly, holding the dress up so the bottom of it doesn’t brush the floor. I close the dressing room door and hang it on a hook on the wall, the emotions of the morning after the rehearsal dinner rushing through me in a violent wave. As I pull the zipper down to remove the dress, the sound takes me back to the moment Jules sealed my gown inside its garment bag and called the concierge, agreeing to pay God only knows what to have it shipped to her house so I’d never have to lay eyes on it again.