Page 25 of Sister of the Bride

“Yes, and we love you for it,” Mom says.

Mom and Polly exchange a loaded glance, but before I can decipher it, the bell on the door of the bridal shop tinkles and we’re being ushered into what looks like an Icelandic bag of cotton balls. Austere, sleek, and modern, save for racks bursting with ruffles and lace.

A woman of indeterminate age in an immaculately tailored black pantsuit is waiting for us at a table near the door. Her ice-blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail so tight it functions as an amateur face-lift. She’s also wearing bright red lipstick the color of a child’s popsicle, which feels like a bold move in a room full of thousands of dollars worth of white fabric. It’s kind of a gangster move, honestly, and it makes me respect her instantly. I love a confident, professional woman with a hint of badass.

The woman passes us all delicate flutes of champagne and introduces herself as Birgit in an accent whose provenance I can’t quite pinpoint: maybe equal parts Russian and one of those countries in the middle of the North Atlantic that’s covered in ice. She nods with an approving smile as we introduce ourselves, like we’ve passed her first test simply by saying our names out loud without falling down.

“So vaht az-te-tique are you aiming for?” Birgit asks.

“Excuse me?” I say, causing Polly to elbow me directly in the ribs.

“Az-te-tique,” Birgit says again, moving her red lips with an exaggeration that tells me she thinks she’s speaking to a toddler. And when you combine her accent with my extremely limited knowledge of weddings, maybe that’s what I am.

“Aesthetic,” Mom whispers.

Oh. But still,what?White Wedding? Bridal? All I can think of is music videos with weddings in them, but something tells me shouting “November Rain” will not go over well with this woman. Honestly, is that the best first question? But Polly, who has the ring on her finger and a whole lot of hours of art history under her belt, doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m thinking autumnal boho with touches of structure,” Polly says, immediately in her element. “Soft fabrics that have a bit of heft to them, potentially velvet? With maybe rust or brass in the accents. Both color and texture, I mean. A nice blend of natural and industrial. Butnotmodern farmhouse. This is Boston, not Waco. It’s a backyard wedding, but no barns. No mason jars.”

Birgit nods as if Polly has just laid out a detailed training plan for the next Red Sox championship season. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I’m starting to realize that it’s going to take more than a few hours of Google searches and a twenty-dollar app to truly understand weddings.

Birgit leads us through the shop to a sleek white couch that’s shockingly comfortable, though I’m almost too afraid to sit on it. I work with marinara sauce for a living. White furniture has never, ever been my friend. Toby’s mother still has not forgotten the time I sat on a white linen ottoman in their library right after a dinner shift.

In the end, I wind up with half a butt cheek on the edge of the couch, my phone perched on my knees as Polly is whisked away behind a set of heavy drapes.

“I want her to do something sheer and lacy, like April’s dress when she was supposed to marry that EMT but actually ran off with Jackson,” Nonna whispers.

“Why are you whispering?” I ask.

“Because this place feels like church,” Nonna replies.

“Amen,” Mom says. “I think she would look great in something like Cristina’s season-one dress, when she was supposed to marry Burke but he left her at the altar? But maybe with sleeves. Strapless is so overdone.”

“I’m down for the dress from Cristina’s second wedding. That red one was fire, and that wedding actually happened,” I say. This family watches entirely too muchGrey’s Anatomy. “But mostly I just hope she picks something today, because we have fifteen weeks and seventy-three more boxes on my checklist to get through.”

“Don’t be such a downer, Pippin,” Mom says. “It’s not all about checklists and numbers.”

“Says the person not in charge of pulling off a wedding in less than four months.”

“But you’renotin charge of pulling off a wedding in less than four months, you’rehelpingto pull off a—” But Mom halts mid-sentence, her hand flying up to her mouth as her eyes settle on Polly, who is emerging in the first dress. Nonna gasps upon catching sight of her, and even I feel myself turning into a bit of a puddle.

The dress is an airy thing with light layers of gauzy fabric, nipped in at the waist, with some kind of crystal embroidery that makes it look a bit like a map of constellations. It drapes gently over Polly’s shoulders and looks like it would flutter lightly in even the softest breeze. Nonna begins clucking about how Polly is glowing while Mom begins openly weeping.

Polly turns to me.

“Pip? What do you think?”

I cock my head, taking in the full picture, trying to look past the fact that it’s my sister dressed as abride, which still feels like an idea for an elaborate costume party, and actually evaluate the fashion. But it takes a moment, becauseoh my god,Polly is actually going to be a bride.My sister, my most trusted companion, is about to take someone else’s hand and walk off into the rest of her life.

I take a deep breath and release it slowly before answering. I need to focus on whether or not she should be wearingthis dresswhen she walks off into the rest of her life. “It’s a really nice dress, and you look gorgeous in it. But I’m not sure it’s the one.”

I brace myself for the meltdown or the scolding from Mom about being a bridal grinch. But I know I’m right about the dress. If you didn’t know Polly, you’d describe her style as girly and bohemian, but I know that what she actually loves is excellent craftsmanship attached to all that detail, which this dress doesn’t have.

Everything’s been slightly off-kilter ever since Polly announced her engagement. It’s like the string that connects us as twins has started to fray. It’s weird not being able to trust the twin thing we’ve shared our whole lives, and it’s making me realize that string has been more of a lifeline for me. Justknowinganother person and having them justknowyou is important. Powerful. But now Polly is in a wedding dress and we’re in deep, uncharted waters.

But to my great surprise and delight, Polly nods. Quick and businesslike, crossing the dress off her own mental checklist.

“Agreed,” she says. “Next?”

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