Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
I’m about to say Lake’s name when he’s moving toward my side, bending. “What did you find?”
Would this even interest him? But I remember his words when I put on makeup last weekend. He’s interested in what I’m interested in.
“Look,” I say quietly. “It’s like a letter pinned to the wedding dress.”
“Open it,” he says, quick, decisive.
“Okay,” I say, needing no more permission than that. I’m dying to know what this says.
I unpin the letter, then unfold it.
And gasp. The first words are in a different handwriting from the rest of the note. They say: If you’re reading this, please treat it like the adventure this bride never got to experience.
I glance at Lake. He nods urgently, then moves closer. My breath catches as I read the list with him by my side. As promised, it’s five things this bride presumably wanted to do before her wedding. It’s dated two months ago. I read it, and it says her wedding is this summer.
My stomach falls. Sadness grips my throat.
“She must have died,” I whisper, meeting his eyes. His fill with sadness, sympathy. “Before she could do these things.”
I bring my hand to my mouth, sealing in tears, or trying to.
“It’s okay, Remy,” he says, softly, reaching for my shoulder, squeezing it.
“It’s not,” I whisper, then choke out. “She wrote a list and didn’t get to do it. She wanted to do this.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the waves of emotion for someone I don’t even know. There’s no name on the note.
I should say something to the store owner. I really should. Her shoes are clicking and as they grow louder, she calls out in her warm, grandmotherly tone, “Find anything?”
Panic grips me. Do I tell her?
I don’t know what to say, but Lake clears his throat. “We’ll take this dress.”
I flinch. He’s buying a wedding dress? For me? What is even happening?
The shopkeeper smiles, a knowing, almost matchmaker-like grin as she glances from him to me. “I had a feeling.”
But my stomach craters and it’s not from the assumptions she’s making. I can’t take this. What if someone’s looking for the note?
My gut churns, but I cut in. “There’s a letter inside.”
The woman smiles kindly. “I know. It starts with If you’re reading this…”
She’s read it. “Do you know the family? The bride? Did they give this to you?”
“They want to sell everything. Including…”
This is almost too much. But if they know, if they want this, this is meant to be. “Including the dress?” I ask, just to be sure.
“Including the dress,” she repeats, then shrugs.
“Then, it’s supposed to happen this way,” Lake says, decisive, firm. He turns to me. “Do you want this?”
Four words and they feel like they’re heavy, important. They hold the weight of this woman’s last wishes. Her unfilled wishes. I don’t know why exactly, but there’s no question in my mind. I want this.
“I do,” I whisper.
And that’s it. He takes out his phone to pay, like buying a wedding dress for his fake girlfriend is just part of a regular day.
As he pays, he says to the shopkeeper, “Good thing we were here today.”
“It’s a very good thing,” she says as she rings up the unused wedding dress. She gently folds the gown and the letter up, taking so much care with both as she slides them into a gift bag, and hands it to me along with the one containing my maid of honor dress.
It’s like finding a message in a bottle. And now I have to decide what to do with it.
24
TWO HEADS ARE BETTER THAN ONE
REMY
I don’t hesitate the second we’re in the car. I turn to Lake. “Do you want to go to Puzzle Me This?”
He tilts his head, his blue eyes sparking with surprise. Like he kind of can’t believe I asked that. “Yeah, I do.”
His answer is emphatic and clear, and a feeling of calm spreads through me, chased by anticipation as he drives through the city at night, expertly navigating the stop and start traffic till we reach the Haight. A minute later, he’s holding open the yellow door of the shop while I clutch my bag that holds an unexpected treasure—the unknown bride’s wish list.
We pass the families assembling puzzles with cows and ducks, the friends sliding pieces of the Eiffel Tower into another, until we reach the drink counter. “Is it matcha month now? Latte week? Are you still in your chai days?”
I’m touched that he remembers. I study the chalkboard menu for several seconds, considering too many options. What is the right drink to talk about a list of five things to do before you say I do, even though you didn’t get to say it? A sugary drink feels a little wrong. Something warm and comforting seems right.
And this bout of overthinking is brought to you by my too busy, too controlling brain.