The boutique was in the bridal district, a street of white facades and tulle explosions and women walking out with dresses that cost more than cars. I’d been coming here for three months — fittings, alterations, panic attacks — and today was the final one. The wedding was at 6 PM. It was currently 11:30 AM. And I was standing in a rose gold fitting room in a dress that suddenly felt like a costume.
Sloane was my maid of honor. My best friend since college. The woman who’d held my hair when I got food poisoning in Prague, who’d helped me pick this dress, who’d looked at me across the bridal salon six months ago with an expression that I hadn’t understood until last night.
Last night. The rehearsal dinner. The champagne. The moment when she’d kissed me in the bathroom and then pretended it didn’t happen.
“The boutique owner is outside measuring another bride,” I whispered, standing before the three-way mirror in my wedding gown — ivory, lace, backless, the zipper partially open because Sloane’s hands were inside it. “My wedding is in six hours. The photographer arrives at noon. The florist is at the venue. And your hands are inside my dress, not on the zipper. You’re supposed to be helping me fit. Not touching me. Not pressing against my back. Not—”
Sloane didn’t speak. She just slowly pulled the zipper up — one inch, then stopped — her cheek brushing my bare shoulder, her hands sliding from the zipper to my waist, then under the fabric, finding my skin.
“If she pulls back that curtain,” I breathed, my voice trembling as her fingers traced my spine, “she’ll see my maid of honor with her hands inside the bride’s gown. She’ll see your mouth on my neck and the dress open in the back and your champagne slip dress pushed up and she’ll know that the woman getting married in six hours is being touched by her best friend. She’ll know that I’m not nervous about the wedding. I’m nervous because I want you to keep touching me. And I don’t know how to walk down that aisle knowing what your hands feel like—”
She turned me around by the waist. Her mouth found mine. A kiss that tasted like tulle and panic and the exact moment when a dress fitting becomes an undressing of everything. Her tongue slid against mine, her hands sliding from my waist to the front of the dress, finding my breast through the lace, pinching with a pressure that made me gasp into her mouth.
The curtain moved.
A hand on the velvet. The boutique owner’s voice — Maria, sixty, Italian, completely terrifying. “Signora? How is the fit? Do you need the seamstress?”
Sloane didn’t pull away. She just pressed her palm over my mouth, her other hand still inside my dress, her fingers still pinching my nipple, her eyes locked on mine in the mirror.
“Perfect fit, Maria!” Sloane called out, her voice light, completely casual. “Just adjusting the bustle!”
“Okay! I come in five minutes!”
Her footsteps retreated. Sloane looked at me. The dress was open in the back. My lipstick was on her mouth. The ring was still on my finger — Richard’s ring, the man waiting at the church.
“Walk down the aisle,” Sloane whispered against my lips, her hand sliding down my stomach, under the layers of tulle, finding me wet and ready and completely ruined. “Say ‘I do.’ Smile for the photos. And tonight, when he’s asleep, I’ll be the one unwrapping you. Because this dress belongs to me. And so do you.”
She made me come in the wedding gown. Her fingers inside me, her mouth on my neck, the three-way mirror showing every angle of my betrayal. I came with her hand over my mouth, my cry swallowed by tulle, my body shaking so hard the dress rustled like wings.
After, she zipped me up. Fixed my veil. Kissed my forehead.
“Beautiful,” she said. And then, so quietly only I could hear: “But not as beautiful as you’ll look when I take it off.”
I walked down the aisle. I said “I do.” I smiled for the photos. And at 2 AM, while Richard slept in the honeymoon suite, Sloane knocked on the door wearing my champagne slip dress. She’d stolen it from the boutique.
I let her in. She spent three hours proving that the dress wasn’t the only thing that belonged to her.
I’m still married. Sloane is still my best friend. And every anniversary, I book a fitting at that boutique. Maria thinks I’m sentimental. She has no idea that I’m just looking for an excuse to stand in front of those mirrors while Sloane’s hands are inside my dress.
