Page 66 of Bottle Shock
What does one wear to a courthouse wedding with her best friend’s brother?
There’s no guidebook for this sort of thing. I Googled it—don’t recommend. Every result assumes you’re either running away to Vegas or entering into a lavender marriage. Neither applies here.
I assume I should look like a bride. It’s not like we can tell the judge,Hi, we’re entering a loveless marriage so I can afford insulin and ADHD meds.First-world problems at their finest.
I stand in front of the mirror, holding the two finalists up by their hangers, switching them back and forth like a very underqualified stylist. Which one sayscool, chic bride—but also this might be the only wedding I ever get, so I’d like to feel at least a little bridal, even if it’s all pretend?
It’s ridiculous. All of it. But if I’m going through with this, I at least want to look beautiful doing it. Glowy, even. Like every other bride—just minus the love part.
I end up choosing the white satin mini. Sleeveless, high neckline, a little sixties-inspired. In another life, maybe I’dwear the floor-length gown of my dreams, but that would be a little much given the circumstances.
So, mini dress it is.
No one is more surprised than me to realize I somehow own zero white dresses. Not one. Luckily, I was savvy with some online shopping and managed to overnight a few options.
Once I’ve zipped it up and paired it with an impractical pair of heels, I stare at myself in the mirror. The look is okay. Better than okay, technically. But something’s missing—something that would tie the whole ensemble together.
That’s when I spot it.
The veil.
The cheap little short one I ordered as a joke—a bachelorette accessory meant for drunk twenty-somethings doing karaoke, not an actual wedding. I didn’t plan to wear it. It was supposed to be funny, something to make this whole thing feel less serious.
But serious or not, I’m doing this.
So I reach for it.
The tulle catches the light as I settle it into my hair. When I meet my reflection again, I almost don’t recognize myself. There’s a moment—just one—where it hits me like a sucker punch: I’m actually marrying Gavin.
A tiny, traitorous part of me wishes it weren’t pretend. That we really were in love and doing this for real.
But my brain, being the overachiever it is, jumps in with every reason we’re not—and why we never could be.
It’s not like I evenwantto get married. Real marriage would hold me back. Men like the idea of me—the free bird, the wild thing who makes them feel spontaneous—but eventually they all want the same thing. They want to clip wings. Put the bird in a pretty cage. Something decorative to brag about. Something thatdoesn’t fly away.
They want to keep the parts of me that shine, but not the parts that scare them.
I don’t think Gavin is like that. He’s secure—the kind of man who builds people up instead of boxing them in. The kind who would hand me the keys to the cage and tell me to go.
But his life is here. And mine isn’t.
And after all these years, if he’d ever seen me that way, I think he would’ve shown it by now.
Still, as I stand there in a cheap veil and a dress that fits too well for a sham wedding, I can’t squash that little crumb of hope.
Rather than dwell on it, I snap a quick picture and text it to Gavin.
What do you think? Does it scream Mrs. Ledger?
His reply comes through in less than a minute.
Gavin
Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?
I snort, even though I’m not sure he meant it as a joke. Before I can reply, another text pops up.
Gavin
