A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom
Chapter 15

Bailey

The thing about planning a wedding in a week is that you end up having very few choices. Which can be good or bad, depending on if you’re a glass half-full or half-empty kind of person. On the glass-half-full side, fewer choices can mean less decision fatigue. (It also helps if the groom takes on the wedding planning, which I’m so grateful for.)

On the glass-half-empty side, it means I’m stuck in a big-box bridal store trying on dresses off the rack so covered in sequins or ruffles or lace that it feels more like I’m dressing for some kind of drama performance than a wedding. Then again, this wedding kind of is a performance, so trying on dresses doesn’t quite have the emotional oomph it would if I were planning a real wedding to a man I really wanted to marry.

And I’m going to keep telling myself that Eli isn’t a man I really want to marry. An obvious lie. One that gets harder the more time I spend with him, the more I kiss him.

The more I wonder why he kisses me back and what he’s not confused about.

Does it mean for him anything close to what it means for me?

Shannon tells me to be bold, to ask what he wants, to tell him what I want and how I feel. But the whole kissing conversation blew my boldness budget for the month. I’m not a person who can discuss what I hope for in a relationship the way I can place an order at the drive-through.

Um, let’s see … I’d like to order plenty of kisses, double up on the flirty grins, hold the heartbreak please!

“This one is … special,” Jenny says, ripping my thoughts from where they drifted to Eli’s mouth on mine, his thumb’s gentle press on my throat. “Unique.”

Shannon makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a scoff. “It’s covered in feathers, J. She looks like some kind of bird of paradise bride of Frankenstein.”

I pluck at the feathers circling my waist. If a dress is going to have feathers, you know where it shouldn’t have them? Around areas of the body you want to look smaller. I look like Big Bird’s pregnant albino girlfriend. I think I prefer Shannon’s description. You know it’s bad when a bird of paradise bride of Frankenstein is the better of two alternatives.

“A bird of Frankenstein,” I say, which makes both Jenny and Shannon laugh.

I smile too, but it’s not helping me feel any better about this. The wedding dress shopping. The realization I’m still trying to wrap my brain around how I am the one trying on legit wedding dresses. The on-ice proposal—or almost proposal since I’m wearing the ring but he didn’t ask and I didn’t say yes—didn’t make this whole thing feel real. Neither does this.

Not even after our date, in which Eli was adorably awkward—almost like it was a real date—and then kissed me into a haze at the shelter. I really should stop kissing him. Just to, you know, have some reminder of this as an arrangement. But now that the box has been opened, I’m not sure I can put kissing back inside.

I was both grateful Doris cut our moment short peeing on Eli’s shoe and also ready to withhold all future dog treats for reminding me this will have an expiration date. One more thing we haven’t discussed. It feels like for each thing we nail down, there are twenty more we need to talk about. I’m exhausted, a wrung-out piece of laundry drying on the line.

“Can I take a picture?” Shannon asks. “I need to remember this moment.”

“Gee, I’m so glad I brought my best friends to help me pick out a dress,” I say.

Shannon shrugs and takes a sip from her travel mug. It’s full of champagne. And ice. Since David’s Bridal doesn’t offer complimentary champagne while shopping, Shannon claimed it’s a BYOC kind of situation.

Jenny and I stuck to coffee. Which I quickly realized was a terrible idea because I’m so terrified I’ll spill on an ugly dress and have to buy it. Now Jenny is balancing both of our travel mugs. She keeps forgetting and drinking out of mine, then making a face because she’s a monster who doesn’t like sugar in her coffee.

“Do you want me to lie?” Shannon asks. “Or would you prefer I tell the truth when you look like the newest Marvel character—the bird bride of vengeance?”

“Ooh,” Jenny says, pushing up her glasses with a forearm, nearly spilling both coffees. “And she only goes after men who cheat on their girlfriends with their former high school rivals.”

Shannon pats Jenny’s arm sympathetically at the not-so-vague reference to Jenny’s ex. Then narrows her eyes and punches her in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Jenny says, jerking away from Shannon.

“Watch the coffee!” I warn.

“It’s high time to get over Chet.” Shannon bends herself over the arm of her chair to meet Jenny’s eyes. “His name is Chet. That alone should make it easier. Your high school rival is the big loser here. You know that, right? You are a gorgeous, amazing human, and Chet and what’s her face are the tiny cubes that get spit out of a trash compactor. Nod if you agree.”

Jenny nods, her smile a little wobbly. “Thanks.”

The very young and very bored David’s Bridal employee appears, like a bad spirit we’ve summoned. The expression on her face tells me this sentiment goes both ways.

“And how are things going?” she asks, giving us a sweeping look that’s somehow both bored and judgmental. “Finding everything you need?”

“Tell me”—Shannon leans closer to read the woman’s name tag—“Becky. Does this dress come in yellow?”

Becky glances at me, and I’ll give the woman credit because she keeps a totally blank face.

“No. White and ivory. Anything else?”

“We’re good. Great, actually,” I say quickly before Shannon can say whatever she opened her mouth to say next. Probably to ask if there’s a rolling discount in proportion to the ugliness of the dress.

When Becky’s gone, the three of us dissolve into giggles. The feathers sway as I laugh, which only makes me laugh harder.

“I think we need to buy this one for funsies,” Shannon says.

“You could hang it in a field and scare birds away from the crops,” Shannon says.

“Or put it outside at Halloween to scare children,” Jenny adds.

Twisting uncomfortably, I manage to read the price tag. “Uh, sorry. It’s almost a thousand dollars. Too expensive for Halloween decor.”

“Okay, well, how many dresses are left?” Shannon asks. “I need to head out to the car for a refill if it’s more than five.”

“I think only three.” Which does not bode well for me finding a dress I actually like.

“I meant to ask you—did Eli’s mom not want to come?” Jenny asks, and I freeze, having taken two steps toward the dressing room.

“What?”

Both my friends blink at me, wearing matching expressions that let me know exactly how much I screwed up.

I spin Eli’s ring. “Was I supposed to invite her? Is that … a thing?”

Bridal etiquette is not in my wheelhouse. The last wedding I went to was probably ten years ago. Or more. And I wasn’t joking when I told Eli I don’t have a dream wedding in mind. It wasn’t the kind of thing I pretended or planned as a little girl. I was busy pretending to perform surgery on my stuffed animals.

“It’s not, like, required or anything,” Jenny says quickly.

Shannon is silent. Which says more than words could. Dread burrows deep, cozying up to the growing sense of guilt I’ve been carrying around for lying to so many people about this thing. The very last thing I want is to hurt Maggie. Sweet, funny Maggie, who unscrewed half the lightbulbs in her house just to meet me.

Maggie, who leaned close after Eli’s hockey proposal, whispering, “I’m so happy to have you as a daughter.”

I almost burst into tears and confessed right there on the spot.

Jenny takes a sip of the wrong coffee again and makes a face. “If brides get along with their future mom-in-law, they might invite them to come. Especially if …” Jenny trails off. She doesn’t need to mention the fact that my own mom isn’t here.

Honestly, I know the exact uncomfortable look she’d have on her face if Mom were here. The way she’d fidget in the chair, trying to get comfortable and finally giving up to pace. Shopping never was her scene. And wedding dresses are the elite level of shopping.

The truth is: as wonderful as my mom was, planning a wedding, normal or otherwise, would have been uncomfortable with her. Awkward. Not fun. Even if she would have been happy for me—it just wouldn’t have been her thing.

But Eli’s mom, on the other hand …

I swallow. “Should I call her?”

“Do you want her to be here? We didn’t mean to make you feel pressured,” Shannon says.

I don’t even need to think about it. I’m already going for my phone.

We decide to have brunch in a cafe next door while we wait for Eli and his mom, who were close by in Asheville for an appointment. Best-salesgirl-ever Becky refused to set aside the dresses I planned to try on, yet looks put out when Shannon tells her she’s just going to have to get them out again.

“Can’t have it both ways, sister,” Shannon told her, and I fully expect every mediocre dress I semi-liked to be hidden in the back when we return. The only ones left will be full of feathers.

“Did she sound excited?” Jenny asks.

“You could say that.”

I don’t tell them how people two states away probably heard her scream.

“And you said Eli’s coming with her?” Shannon has switched from champagne to black coffee and is on her third cup. We’ve been here twenty minutes.

“Yeah.” I don’t add that Maggie has some health issues, and Eli got on the phone to tell me she’s having a hard day.

His exact words were that she’s having a flare-up, and they’re already nearby in Asheville to see her chiropractor. I’m not comfortable sharing someone else’s medical history with my best friends, even if Maggie will probably tell them herself. I was surprised she didn’t mention it at the game. But then, between watching Eli totally kill it on the ice and the proposal, we didn’t have much time for chitchat of any kind.

“Are you going to let Eli see you in the dresses?” Shannon asks.

Jenny speaks around a mouth full of muffin. “If you do, it’s bad luck for seven years.”

“I thought that was breaking a mirror,” Shannon says. “Or walking under a ladder. I think the wedding dress thing it’s just generally bad luck.”

“I didn’t know y’all were so superstitious.”

I take a sip of coffee, then decide the caffeine isn’t helping my frayed nerves and switch to water. I’ve already eaten everything on my plate. I’m a nervous eater, which now means I’m overly full from the bacon grilled cheese and sweet potato fries I basically unhinged my jaw to eat. My full stomach is going to make putting on dresses oh-so fun.

I lower my voice and grip the edge of the table, trying to anchor myself in place. Or test the tensile strength of the furniture. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Why not?” Jenny asks.

“You know why.” I release the table and drop my hands, suddenly overcome with melancholy like a cloud has moved across the sun, leaving me in shadow.

“Stop that.” Shannon reaches across the table and pokes me with her fork. The tines press into my arm, and it’s not a wholly unpleasant feeling, but I say “ouch” anyway.

“You’re so violent,” I tell her, rubbing my arm.

“No, I’m just tactile.” Without even wiping the fork off, Shannon spears a bite of maple bacon potato. “But seriously. You know you’re allowed to enjoy this process. The dress shopping, the planning, all of it. Even the wedding and”—she gives me a mischievous look—“the wedding night.”

Jenny’s eyes go wide, probably in direct proportion to how red my cheeks are. “Are you going to—like …” She stops, coughs, and then takes off her glasses, buffing them with her napkin before setting them back in place. “How real is this marriage going to be?”

“I don’t know. But not … that real.” I swallow, thinking of how my heart practically vibrated in my chest when Eli’s lips dragged over my jaw. “I don’t think. It’s not like a fake marriage with benefits thing.”

“Of course not,” Jenny says.

But Shannon raises an eyebrow. “But how do you know it’s not just a casual kissing thing?”

It might very well be. I know she’s right, and I should clarify this with Eli. But I will, I promise myself. I will.

Eventually.

“I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with kissing,” Shannon adds. “Or more than kissing. Even the abstinence people would sign off on this. Is it even technically a real marriage if you don’t, you know, consummate it?”

I cover my face with my hands. “Please, do not use the word consummate again. For the love.”

“I don’t think the immigration police or whoever are exactly checking for that kind of proof,” Jenny says. “The consummatory kind.”

“Still. It could be a perk to enjoy,” Shannon says. “I know I would.”

“But you’re not Bailey,” Jenny says.

I slide down in my chair, wishing my bones would melt so I could puddle under the table and away from this conversation. It’s not that I can’t discuss sex like an adult. It’s more that this is all too real. And, by the same token, unreal. I agreed to marry Eli for his visa. Not for … any other reason.

But if he asked …

“Can we just … not?”

I can’t allow myself to think any more about this. There is a very heavy door closed on the topic of physical intimacy with my soon-to-be only-on-paper husband. I mentally add another few bolts to reinforce it.

“But back to the matter at hand today and the wedding dress dilemma,” Jenny says, and I could kiss her for steering this ship away from consummating-the-marriage waters. Shannon sighs heavily—at the change in topic, no doubt—but turns interested eyes my way. “For real, though—are you going to let him?”

“Let him what?”

The spike of adrenaline at the sound of Eli’s voice has me grasping my knife in some kind of misguided fight-flight-or-stab-someone response. I turn and see a sight that’s the equivalent of a whole quiver of cupid’s arrows finding my heart in unison. Eli, wearing a backwards cap and a Henley, is carrying his mother. Maggie looks tiny in his arms, her smile broad despite the shadows beneath her eyes.

“We made it!” Maggie says a little breathlessly, as though she were the one carrying Eli, not the other way around.

She throws one arm dramatically wide. The other stays looped around Eli’s neck. She’s wearing loose jeans, a pink cable-knit sweater, and a black and white striped scarf that somehow makes me think about prisoner’s uniforms in old cartoons and movies.

I scramble to my feet and attempt to hug her, which ends up being a strange sort of mother-son group hug. Eli’s chuckle shifts my hair and sends a shiver skittering up my spine. Maggie smells like flowers and incense, muting Eli’s masculine scent somewhat. I find myself taking a deeper inhale with my nose pressed to his collarbone, trying to locate him.

“Planning on stabbing someone, Leelee?” Eli asks as I pull back.

He raises a brow at my fist, still curled around the butter knife I used to cut my grilled cheese in half earlier. I’m lucky I didn’t stab one of them during the hug.

“Oh. This.” I set it on the table, but the heavier part is over the edge, and it clatters to the floor. I bend to pick it up and hit my forehead on the edge of the table. “Ow.” Slumping back into my chair, I rub my forehead and my wounded pride.

“Set me down, son,” Maggie says, patting Eli on one of his impressive pecs. “You’re causing a spectacle.”

He absolutely is—and not just at our table.

The spectacle isn’t because Eli is carrying his mom, though I’m sure that adds to it. He is the spectacle. His size, which is the evolutionary pinnacle of our kind. And his handsomeness, which has a sort of full-body halo effect. He’s just … brighter than anyone else in the room. Clearly, multiple people recognize him, and phones are already out.

And he’s mine, some tiny, very misguided part of my brain says. I pop that thought like a balloon.

“As you wish, madame.”

With a swoop that makes Maggie squeal, Eli sets his giggling mother on the empty chair next to mine. Despite the dramatic movement, he’s careful to tuck her legs under the table and doesn’t step back until she’s secure. Then he turns all of THAT my way, beaming as he leans forward to press a quick kiss to my forehead.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod, having lost my ability to speak several minutes ago. Apparently, there’s something in the air, because my friends are both under the same bubble of silence. But it looks like they want to speak, considering the way both of their mouths are hanging open. Eli pulls a chair up beside his mom, keeping her between us, and I’m glad right now for the buffer. I feel far too soft and squishy and vulnerable right now. Under the table, though, his foot finds mine, giving me a soft but solid press.

“Ignore my dramatic entrance. I can walk. But some days my fibromyalgia flares up, and it hurts. That’s when I’m happy to take advantage of having a giant of a son who can act as my personal porter.” Maggie’s voice is warm and her smile wide, despite the slight wince as she settles in the wooden chair.

While my friends are digesting that pipe bomb of information, Maggie turns to me, and I’m surprised when she hugs me again. This one is a lot less awkward than when Eli was holding her. But then I meet his eyes over her shoulder, and something in my chest cinches tight, tight, tight.

“Thank you for inviting me,” she says. “You didn’t need to, but I’m so very glad you did.”

“Would you like to order food?” Shannon asks. “We ate but could totally wait. Or eat more.”

“Speak for yourself,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be trying on a whole size larger now.”

“What were you saying when we walked up?” Eli asks, and I wish he’d forgotten. “Are you going to let me what?”

Shannon, Jenny, and I exchange glances. I know we were talking about trying on dresses, but at his question, my mind zipped right back to the conversation before that one. The one about the physical boundaries in our relationship.

“We were talking about whether Bailey was going to let you see her try on the dresses,” Shannon says.

“It’s bad luck,” Jenny says. “But it might be a dumb tradition y’all don’t care about.”

Eli looks my way, and the heat in his gaze sweeps over me like a solar flare. “Well, Leelee? Are you afraid of a little superstition? Or do you want to let me peek?”

Right now, I think I’d let him do just about anything he asked. Especially when he’s wearing that smile. I know everyone in the room can see it—and I think a woman a few tables over just took a picture—but this smile feels like it’s just for me.

“I, um … what do you want to do?”

I love the way Maggie waits for his answer, her eyes bright and expression proud, like no matter what the answer is, she is just so, so proud to call him her son. I swallow hard.

“While I love surprises, Mom will confirm I’m terrible at waiting for them.”

“True,” Maggie says cheerfully. “Peeked at every Christmas present every single year. I had to start keeping them at a friend’s house just so he couldn’t find them, and then wrapping random empty boxes from around the house to go under the tree.”

I can totally picture that—a miniature version of the smiling man in front of me, missing a front tooth, eyes narrowed in concentration, hair falling over his eyes as he tiptoes toward the Christmas tree in the dark. His fingers, probably at least one with a scrape, carefully peeling back tape and folding away the paper to reveal a forbidden glance at his present. Like Bluebeard’s wife, unable to resist the allure.

Only, with Christmas presents not dead wives. Obviously.

I find Eli staring, his blue eyes sparkling. I’ve heard the phrase smiling eyes, but never until Eli have I known what it means. My heart flutters a bit, nervous and a little excited too as I wait for his answer.

Am I a present he can’t wait to open early?

“I’ll defer to the bride,” Eli says, watching me carefully, his smile now a little less sure.

I can’t ignore the little squeeze of disappointment. While I appreciate the way Eli is concerned with making sure I’m okay, this response only makes me understand less what he really wants.

I’m not confused.

Are his words the other night ever going to stop playing on a loop in my head?

Probably not until you talk to him and clarify things.

Great. Now Shannon’s voice is in my head too. Just what I need adding to the overthinking.

Eli is still patiently waiting for me, unaware that I’m in a tailspin. A total downward thought spiral. His soft smile and the kindness in his eyes takes a little bit of the edge off.

And it’s his smile which gives me the courage to shrug and say, “Guess it depends on whether you’ve been naughty or nice.”

Which makes Maggie cackle, Shannon stare at me in shock, and Eli—well, the expression on his face and the mischief in his eyes is definitely on the naughty side of the spectrum.

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