Page 73 of How to Ruin a Wedding

Anders squeezes my hand again, more firmly this time. “You’re allowed to be scared. But Lucinda, you’re going to be okay. You haven’t lost everything, you’vesurvivedeverything. That’s different. And the fact that you still care enough to want something good, after all that? That’s not pathetic. That’s a strength I’ve never seen anyone else ever wear.”

My heart skips and speeds. I press the back of my hand against my mouth, trying not to let anything spill out that I can’t take back.

He adds, softer now, “I believe in you. I believe in this dream you’re chasing. But even if the impossible happens, and you don’t get what you want—”

I cut in, voice tight, “Then what?”

“Then you’ll still be okay. You’ll still find yourself, and you’ll find new dreams. Dreams that fit the person you’ve become along the way.”

His words don’t erase the fear, but they don’t let it swallow me whole either. And I feel every fragile wall I’ve tried to build between us start to crumble.

Not because of some grand gesture—but because he notices. The small things, the big things, most things. Because he pays attention—not out of obligation, but because he wants to. Because his care is quiet and genuine, like everything else about him.

And I’m not entirely sure what to do with all this affection blooming in my chest.

20.

With Olive being the flower girl in the wedding, Anders drops the both of us off at the boutique after a quick stop at a bakery where we loaded ourselves up with coffee and pastries.

The place is modestly sized, but it feels somewhat fragile. Countless glass centerpieces stand on thin displays, and even the rack holding the array of colorful dresses is this slim golden band closer to a necklace chain than a clothing bar. The employee stands by a curved desk with a thin, oversized monitor.

She leads us to a separate room with high ceilings and three beautiful and incredibly stiff-looking couches clustered around a three-way mirror on a tiny stage I assume is meant for brides to show off their gowns.

“Champagne?” the woman asks us. “We also have nonalcoholic for the little one.”

The “little one” comment earns a glare from Olive. “I’ll take a champagne with alcohol.”

“We’ll just have water,” I say, trying to stifle a laugh.

Just as she leaves, Valerie enters in a tiny white silk minidress, barely covering her thighs. I suddenly feel like I should start waking up at five for long runs. And go on a diet.

“Wow, so prompt,” Valerie says by way of greeting. “You’ll be the only ones. I told everyone else we started thirty minutes earlier, and they’ve yet to arrive.”

“Wouldn’t miss a minute,” I say. “I take my job as a stand-in dress placeholder incredibly seriously.”

“Good,” Valerie says, “because I’ve picked out seventeen dresses that will look good on Cierra.” When I laugh, she gives me a look of sympathy. “Oh, that’s not a dramatization.”

“Well,” I say, “let’s get started.”

The woman assigned to help us, Mimi, returns with drinks, a dress-fitting kit, and endless patience.

At first, Olive and I have a little fashion show. Our fitting rooms are beside each other, and with each try-on, we strut down our pretend runway, making a show of twirling for Valerie as she downs her wine and cheers.

Seven dresses in, Olive and Valerie mutually decide that a pale-pink dress with a flowing skirt is her best and cutest option. I-as-Cierra, unfortunately, am on my tenth dress and still not impressing Valerie.

Only two of Valerie’s four other friends have arrived—one of them, Jennifer, whom I see reaching into a bag I’m not entirely sure is hers at least three times. We all keep removing and pulling on clothes for Valerie, who has very detailed criteria on what looks good and what doesn’t.

I’m not entirely sure what the criteria is, since she only says, “So cute ... but no,” or “Are you trying to outdo the bride?” depending on the dress. While our try-on continues, all Valerie’s friends eventually join.

The final one is a woman, Ashley, in a miniskirt and slicked-back ponytail with a girl around Olive’s age beside her. “Sorry,” she says, irritation marring her unnaturally smooth features. “My brother had an appointment and dropped my niece off with me. He’s still not back. You know Erin, right, Olive? You have art together.”

Erin, in the same slicked-back ponytail and a mirror of Ashley’s irritation, smiles as she sits beside Olive, who stiffens. I recognize the look of an asshole kid—when you grow up wearing only hand-me-down off-brand clothes, you become familiar with it. I clock it, but move on.

Not your place, Lucy.Olive isn’t mine to protect, no matter how much I want to.

I need to draw my lines. Not just with Anders, but with all of this. His family. His world. Because when I go—when, not if—I don’t want to leave too much hurt behind. Especially for a young Olive, who is growing attached to me easily.

Valerie appears, holding up another dress for me to try.