Read Online Kiss Crush Collide by Christina Meredith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christina Meredith
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She angles her head toward the arriving assistants and smiles. “The dresses are here.”
It’s sad but true—Yorke must buy off the rack. Her wedding date is too soon for anything custom made. I settle in and watch my mother and Yorke slowly coming to terms with the true meaning of these words and then lean back, ready for the show.
Yorke steps onto the pedestal, wearing the first off-the-rack option, her politely disguised look of disgust reflecting back at us from every angle.
“Oh, Yorke.” My mother gasps, turning away from the dress in horror. Lifting her hand to shield her eyes, she says, “That one is too . . .
Gone with the Wind.
”
It does have incredibly big shoulders. My mother dismisses Yorke, and the dress, with a brisk wave of her hand, and Yorke disappears into the dressing room to try again.
Freddie takes Yorke’s place on the pedestal, forced by my mother to try something on since all gown-related decisions have been switched into high gear. She steps up in front of the three mirrors, slumping her shoulders and taking my breath away.
I know what my crime was. I was found guilty of wearing a bathing suit as an undergarment to a dress fitting and am serving my time here, sitting next to my mother on the smallest of sofas. I am not certain of Freddie’s offense, but the punishment is clear. She is wearing the ugliest tangerine satin dress ever, with a low-slung bow at the waist and satin pumps, dyed to match.
Choking on my tea, I manage to say, “All you need is a corsage of carnations and baby’s breath.”
My mother raises her arched brows at me and lifts her teacup to take a sip. There is only one coral lip print on the rim. She hits it exactly, every time.
“You look like a prom reject from 1982,” Yorke says as she sweeps back into the room wearing a tight white mermaid gown, pulling a long train behind her. “Take it off.”
“Jinny has that particular dress available in a variety of colors,” my mother explains, smiling at Jinny, the shop owner with the bouffant black hair, who is discreetly orchestrating her assistants from the edge of the room.
My mother clasps her hands together and suggests, wistfully, “Leah could wear it in pink, and Freddie could wear it in yellow.”
Freddie is a citrus blur against the velvety white walls as she spins toward my mother, shouting, “No!”
“Mother,” Yorke snaps, as she steps up onto the dais, “no!”
Knowing that I am most likely prolonging my time in the chintz-covered penalty box, I look over at Jinny and ask, sweetly, “Does that particular dress come in a light blue?”
Her assistants are ready to scramble, eager to break the tension that is rising in the showroom, happy to find a blue dress or any dress at all.
My mother shakes her head at Jinny, admitting defeat, calling off the color-coded wedding and the assistants without a word. She wraps her fingers around my leg and presses down, squeezing. “Yorke will be wearing something borrowed, and something blue, and a beautiful
white
gown,” she explains to the room as if Yorke, preening around in front of the mirrors in the tightest wedding dress ever made, her nonexistent chest squeezed right up and almost out of the top to touch her chin, were the epitome of the vestal virgin bride.
“But not that one.” My mother sighs loudly. “It’s too tight,” she says. She lays her hands lightly across her girdle-wrapped middle. “I can practically see your lunch.”
One pot of Earl Grey and fifteen white dresses later, we are still searching for “the one.” Well, really, my mother and Yorke and Freddie are searching. I am staring out the front window of the bridal shop, sipping my tea and watching the street for a car to pull up and take me away. The room is full of hot air and high tea, and I am steeped.
I see Shane driving up the street toward us, right on time for once.
The sun gleams off his chrome vanity plate as SHN ROX swings out wide, comes in fast, and
It’s sad but true—Yorke must buy off the rack. Her wedding date is too soon for anything custom made. I settle in and watch my mother and Yorke slowly coming to terms with the true meaning of these words and then lean back, ready for the show.
Yorke steps onto the pedestal, wearing the first off-the-rack option, her politely disguised look of disgust reflecting back at us from every angle.
“Oh, Yorke.” My mother gasps, turning away from the dress in horror. Lifting her hand to shield her eyes, she says, “That one is too . . .
Gone with the Wind.
”
It does have incredibly big shoulders. My mother dismisses Yorke, and the dress, with a brisk wave of her hand, and Yorke disappears into the dressing room to try again.
Freddie takes Yorke’s place on the pedestal, forced by my mother to try something on since all gown-related decisions have been switched into high gear. She steps up in front of the three mirrors, slumping her shoulders and taking my breath away.
I know what my crime was. I was found guilty of wearing a bathing suit as an undergarment to a dress fitting and am serving my time here, sitting next to my mother on the smallest of sofas. I am not certain of Freddie’s offense, but the punishment is clear. She is wearing the ugliest tangerine satin dress ever, with a low-slung bow at the waist and satin pumps, dyed to match.
Choking on my tea, I manage to say, “All you need is a corsage of carnations and baby’s breath.”
My mother raises her arched brows at me and lifts her teacup to take a sip. There is only one coral lip print on the rim. She hits it exactly, every time.
“You look like a prom reject from 1982,” Yorke says as she sweeps back into the room wearing a tight white mermaid gown, pulling a long train behind her. “Take it off.”
“Jinny has that particular dress available in a variety of colors,” my mother explains, smiling at Jinny, the shop owner with the bouffant black hair, who is discreetly orchestrating her assistants from the edge of the room.
My mother clasps her hands together and suggests, wistfully, “Leah could wear it in pink, and Freddie could wear it in yellow.”
Freddie is a citrus blur against the velvety white walls as she spins toward my mother, shouting, “No!”
“Mother,” Yorke snaps, as she steps up onto the dais, “no!”
Knowing that I am most likely prolonging my time in the chintz-covered penalty box, I look over at Jinny and ask, sweetly, “Does that particular dress come in a light blue?”
Her assistants are ready to scramble, eager to break the tension that is rising in the showroom, happy to find a blue dress or any dress at all.
My mother shakes her head at Jinny, admitting defeat, calling off the color-coded wedding and the assistants without a word. She wraps her fingers around my leg and presses down, squeezing. “Yorke will be wearing something borrowed, and something blue, and a beautiful
white
gown,” she explains to the room as if Yorke, preening around in front of the mirrors in the tightest wedding dress ever made, her nonexistent chest squeezed right up and almost out of the top to touch her chin, were the epitome of the vestal virgin bride.
“But not that one.” My mother sighs loudly. “It’s too tight,” she says. She lays her hands lightly across her girdle-wrapped middle. “I can practically see your lunch.”
One pot of Earl Grey and fifteen white dresses later, we are still searching for “the one.” Well, really, my mother and Yorke and Freddie are searching. I am staring out the front window of the bridal shop, sipping my tea and watching the street for a car to pull up and take me away. The room is full of hot air and high tea, and I am steeped.
I see Shane driving up the street toward us, right on time for once.
The sun gleams off his chrome vanity plate as SHN ROX swings out wide, comes in fast, and
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