If You Only Knew. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ a great husband,” Rachel says. “And you know how the girls adore him.”

      “Yeah. I do. You go, hon. I have to run down to the city with a dress.”

      “Okay. Hey, tell your friend thanks for me. I’m so embarrassed.”

      “My friend?”

      “Leo.”

      “Oh, right. Okay, have a good day. Talk to you later.”

      If Adam is cheating on my sister, I will rip off his testicles. Through his throat.

      I pick up the dress and my purse and head outside. Leo is lying on his lounge chair, eyes closed, dog by his side, bottle of beer in his hand. “Hi,” I say. “A little early for drinking, isn’t it?”

      “It sure is, Mom,” he says, taking a swig without opening his eyes. The dog lifts his head and growls at me.

      “My sister wanted me to say thanks.”

      “She’s welcome.”

      “And thank you from me, too. You were very nice.”

      “No problem. I excel at catching women when they faint.” He scratches behind Loki’s ear, and the dog makes a guttural sound.

      There’s something arresting about Leo’s face. Angular and a little thin, unshaven. Despite his easy words, there are two lines between his eyebrows. He looks up at me.

      “No eye-fucking,” he says.

      “Because you’re gay?” I suggest.

      “Only where you’re concerned, darling.” He winks, and though I’ve just been rather brilliantly insulted, I can’t help a smile. “Are you going to the prom?” he asks, gesturing with the beer bottle at the dress bag.

      “No.” Placing the dress carefully on the backseat, I secure the hanger onto the hook. “I’m a wedding dress designer.”

      “Seriously?”

      “Seriously.”

      “That’s a real job? I mean, they all kind of look alike, don’t they?”

      “Have a nice day,” I say, waving. Well, my middle finger waves. Leo laughs, and there it is again, that warm pressure in my chest.

      * * *

      “I WANT YOU to take all the rosettes off,” Kendall says.

      We’re in the living room of her parents’ Upper West Side apartment, and I’m kneeling at her feet, my pincushion strapped to my wrist, taking the dress down from a size 00 to microscopic. It looks like her bones are about to slice through her skin.

      “Your wedding is in six days, Kendall,” I say. “It’s a little late to change the design completely.”

      “Look, I hate them, okay? Just lop them off or something.”

      Being a custom wedding dress designer means one thing—the bride gets what the bride wants. We start the process, which takes a year on average, with the bride emailing me pictures of wedding dresses she loves. But there’s a reason she’s not getting one of those, and it’s either that she’s a hard size to fit, or she wants something completely unique.

      Kendall wanted something unique. She sent me thirty-nine pictures of dresses she loved, from a minidress to a ball gown with twelve-foot train. I made her seventeen sketches, then, when she finally settled on one—the one festooned with beautiful, creamy rosettes—I ended up making twenty-two alterations to that sketch. Then, when she said she was deliriously happy with the design, I made the pattern. Cut the dress out of muslin and had her come in for a fitting. She wanted the dress changed again; not a problem, but from then on, it would cost her. A lot.

      Alas, money was no object. Seven muslin dresses and thousands of dollars later, she signed a contract saying yes, I could proceed with the actual dress. A sleeveless sheath dress with a crisscrossing tulle bodice, a belt made from Swarovski crystals that tied in the back with a long, floating tulle sash and a skirt that made her appear as if she were rising from a giant pile of white silk roses, each of the 278 flowers made by the hand of yours truly. It’s pretty. Of course it is.

      All told, the dress will cost almost twenty grand.

      “If I cut off the rosettes,” I say patiently, “I’ll have to make another skirt.”

      She doesn’t bother looking up from her phone, which chimes with a text. “Oh, Christ, you gotta be kidding me! Mom? Mom!” the blushing bride roars. “Ma! Where the hell are you? Now Linley doesn’t want to be in the wedding, either! Those bitches! How dare they bail on me!”

      One wonders.

      A half hour later, it’s decided that yes, Kendall will get another skirt, made from tulle to match the bodice, and a full skirt with a sweep train that will trail out six feet behind her. I request payment in full plus aggravation pay—I call it an emergency alteration fee—and wait as her poor mother writes me out a check.

      “You’ve been wonderful,” the mom says. “Kendall, hasn’t Jenny been wonderful?”

      “What?” Kendall says, dragging her eyes off the phone. Her thumbs continue to tap out her message. “Who’s Jenny? Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

      “She’ll make a beautiful bride,” I tell the mom.

      “You’re very kind,” she says. “I’ll refer you to all my friends.”

      “I really appreciate that.”

      Granted, I’m used to badly behaved brides. It can be a stressful time. But believe it or not, even women like Kendall can morph into a sweetheart on the big day. Not always, but sometimes. And happily, most of my brides are much nicer.

      The lobby doorman holds the door for me. I stash the dress back in the car and stretch my lower back.

      The sky has cleared, the cherry trees are in bloom and I decide to take a walk through Central Park. I love the happy noise of the throngs—kids laughing and yelling, the blur of languages I don’t speak, a homeless man wishing everyone a blessed day, the thunk of bass music from an area where kids are doing backflips, entertaining the tourists.

      The city has been my home since I was eighteen, and though I’ve only lived in COH a day, I feel as if I’ve been away for weeks.

      Central Park is truly the crown jewel of the city, with its curving trails, the statues and flower beds awash in red tulips and yellow daffodils. People are out in droves—runners and parents and nannies and students. A lot of babies are being aired out today. I would pick that one, I think, eyeing a beautiful little boy with bushy black hair and enormous eyes. Or maybe that little girl in the purple windbreaker and red plaid skirt.

      There’s a man sitting on a bench, reading. An actual book, too, not a phone. I can’t quite make out the title, but that doesn’t matter. He’s blond and wears glasses, and he has a scarf around his neck, but it’s not dreadfully self-conscious. He seems to be about forty. No wedding ring. Nice face.

      I СКАЧАТЬ