Landon’s jaw is so clenched I think if Helen were a man he’d have decked her by now. And as upset as I am at him for being just as pissy as I have been, we need to get through this. So while I’m trying to “gaze fondly” into his eyes, I drop the façade, pull major duck lips, and cross my eyes.

His jaw unlocks as the first smile I’ve seen today breaks out on his face. Helen snaps a few pictures, so I give Landon a few kissy faces, too. He closes the tiny space between our lips and the small peck sends electric static down the back of my neck.

“That’s great,” Helen says, breaking what was barely a moment. “Playful works for you guys really well. Let’s move over to the gazebo for a couple shots.”

I increase the distance between our faces, and Landon’s jaw tightens right back up. I stuff a Mr. Goodbar from my pocket into my mouth when he’s not looking.

Helen takes more shots of us by the gazebo, by a tree, in a pile of snow, of us throwing snowballs at each other—that was actually pretty stress relieving, and we got supercompetitive and she said there were a ton of shots that were useful. But even after she drives off with a positive smile, I doubt the shoot is full of romantic, Save the Date–worthy pictures. Just another Hurdle I’m basically stumbling over.

“How long will you be this afternoon?” Landon asks when we get in the car and strip out of our coats and beanies. I’m already pulling out my phone to tell Theresa the pictures are done and now we can get my dress! The winter sale started today. Time to take that baby home.

“Shouldn’t be long,” I tell him, pushing my phone back into my pocket. “You editing tonight?”

He shrugs. “Probably. I need to use Jace’s computer at the studio though. It’s easier to edit from a desktop.”

“Call him.”

“You’re okay if I’m a bit late?”

“Sure. Theresa will keep me company.” And I can wear my dress around the apartment in an attempt to untwist my panties.

He presses his lips together and starts the car. The speedometer reads “something’s bugging your fiancé” as we head home, but I don’t say anything, worried that if I do we’re just going to fight again.

So I just take his hand and squeeze it twice, keeping my gaze out the passenger window. After seven Mississippis, he squeezes back.

—

Theresa pulls and pulls on the zipper, but it won’t budge. I’m sucking in so hard I feel like my belly button could pop out my butt crack.

“I’m sorry, Liz,” she says after a gusty sigh. “It’s not going to fit.”

No, no, no. It has to fit. This is THE dress. “Give me two seconds to breathe and we’ll try again,” I say, determined not to let my chocolate indulgence over the past two months be the cause of my dream dress demise. I prop myself up against the wall of the dressing room and relax my stomach before she starts pulling at me again.

“I…I think you’re SOL. Look at my fingers. I’m going to be drawing blood if I tug on that zipper one more time.”

“But…this is…this is my dress.”

She puts a hand on my upper back, and I refuse to see the complete surrender in her eyes.

“It fit last time you put it on, didn’t it?”

I lift a shoulder. “I thought so. But I couldn’t zip it myself, so I zipped as much as I could.” My eyes drift to hers and I straighten my back. “What am I going to do? I can’t lose an entire dress size between now and the wedding.”

“You could…if you give up the chocolate.”

I think about the day I’ve had, and the only good thing so far has been that Mr. Goodbar. “It’s the only thing keeping me sane.”

“Then have sex.”

“I’m not flaking out!”

She crosses her arms as if to say I’m being a complete bridezilla and it’s my fault I can’t squeeze into the thing.

It’s Hershey’s fault.

I slap my hands over my face and try to form a plan to make this dress fit, but Theresa pulls on my arms.

“Don’t panic. Dress shops like these do alterations all the time, I’m sure. Let me go get someone, okay?”

“This is why you’re my best friend.”

“Don’t get blubbery on me.”

She steps from the dressing room, leaving me alone to look at the bulging areas of my body that I’ve never been overly self-conscious about before, but now…ugh.

A tap comes at the door. That was fast.

“Come in.”

A clean-cut woman in a pantsuit shuffles in with a broad smile, Theresa close behind. She has a wristband of pins and a fabric pencil.

“You mind if I take a look, dear?” she asks, and I nod, but I really think by “take a look” she means “feel you up,” since the first place her hands go are directly to the ladies. It’s the only action they’ve had in months.

“It’s a little tight along here,” she mumbles to herself, drawing lines across the undercurves of my breasts. “And here. Super tight here. We’ll need to take it out here. And probably a few inches here.”

Her hand has made it to my ass, and I feel like a lard-filled balloon by the time she’s done. She pulls up a calculator on her phone and clucks her tongue. I look at Theresa and wonder if I look as bloated as I feel.

“Okay, with all the alterations, it’ll be an extra $525.”

I drop to my butt.

And hear a loud riiiiip.

Pantsuit woman cringes and says, “Make that $565.”

I’m going to have a meltdown right here in the ripped dress that is no longer in my budget. I never thought I’d be one of those brides. I wanted to be completely chill. Yeah, this dress doesn’t fit, but that’s okay! But it’s not okay. I’m so exhausted and I want things to go right, and just when I think they are they don’t…like Landon losing his hours and my fat ass not fitting into this dress and Landon’s mom hating me and Landon taking seven Mississippis to squeeze my hand and who even knows if I’ll get a honeymoon and why the hell can’t I function without sex, or is it the sex at all or is it just me and I’m too immature to deal with this shit and all I want right now is a slice of strawberry rhubarb pie and a million dollars to rain down on Landon and me in the middle of hot, sweaty orgasm city.

Theresa sits next to me on the floor, and I don’t know where the woman went, but she’s not in here.

“There are a lot more dresses out there,” she says. I don’t reply. I’m too busy gazing down at THE dress.

“Okay, we’re going to try one more thing.” She gets up and walks from the dressing room. I look up into the mirror and see that I’ve morphed into Blubbery Boob Bride, dress ripped open at the seam, love handles forcing the zipper open, but my ass still looks good. Good on you, ass. You keep that up.

Theresa comes back in, tearing into a bright pink package that looks like she bought it from an infomercial.

“What’s that?”

“Spanx. Supposedly it sucks you in a few inches.”

THE dress is off me as fast as I can wriggle myself out of it. It’s a whole different ball game squeezing myself into the tummy-tucker material, jumping up and down, spreading my legs, dancing and jiggling, and accidentally elbowing Theresa in the nose when I lose my grip.

“Sorry!” I say breathlessly. Her eyes water as she helps me into the last little bit of the material.

“Can you bend over?” she asks, laughing at my boobs that are now so perky they almost touch my chin. I lean down and touch my toes, and while it feels like the Jaws of Life are squeezing me from the inside out, I’m able to move around.

“Miracle material,” I say, trying to pinch and snap the Spanx, but that’s not happening. Theresa grabs THE dress and helps me in, and the tear is still there, but we can get the zipper to almost the right place. Feelsy lady comes in and does alteration measurements once more, but even with the skintight suctioning underpants, it’s going to cost a fortune.

After the news, I say goodbye to THE dress, pay for the injury I gave it, and Theresa comes in with six other choices, all my size, all in my budget. It takes me ten minutes to get out of the Spanx, and it feels a bit like when you pop open cookie dough from the can.