Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Suddenly I realized my eyes were closed, my nipples were hard, and I was frozen in place with the hairbrush halfway through my damp locks. Between my legs I felt the tingle of arousal.
Setting my brush down, I went over to the edge of my bed and sat down. Opened the nightstand drawer. Took out his card. I stared at it for a full minute, wondering if Winnie was right and I should reach out. Was there something there worth pursuing?
Yeah, said my lady parts. Orgasms.
I stuffed the card back into my drawer and closed it.
My two o’clock bride, whose name was Taylor, came with her mom to look at Cloverleigh Farms as a potential venue for her wedding. She apologized that her fiancé wasn’t available, but he traveled a lot for work, so she was doing some of the initial research on her own.
“My mother sort of invites herself along,” Taylor whispered to me as we walked from the inn toward the wedding barn, where we hosted indoor ceremonies and receptions. “But she’s so critical, she stresses me out.”
I eyed her mother, who’d hurried through the glass doors into the barn ahead of us. “Some mothers are like that,” I said. “But it’s your day, not hers.”
Later, Taylor and her mom sat across from me at my desk as I listed Cloverleigh’s available dates for a Saturday wedding next summer and fall. “There aren’t too many,” I said apologetically. “We tend to book up fast for summer. Have you considered a Friday night wedding? I have some Sunday afternoons available this spring too.”
“Maybe we could do that,” Taylor said. “I just have to—”
“I think that’s too soon,” said her mother. “Taylor needs more time to lose the weight.”
Taylor’s chin dropped, color rising in her cheeks. “Mom.”
“Not one of the dresses you’ve tried on fit,” her mother said, lips pursed. “And we’ve gone to three different bridal salons.”
Taylor, who was plus-sized and short, met my eyes. “I’m having some trouble finding a dress.”
My heart went out to her. “I understand.”
“Everything is either billowy like sheets or all covered up.” Taylor shook her head. “That’s not what I want.”
“What kind of dress do you want?” I asked, thinking I might be able to point her in the right direction.
“I’d like a dress that shows off my curves,” Taylor said, her eyes flicking toward her mother. “Something glamorous and elegant but also sexy. My fiancé loves my curves.”
“That’s all well and good, but they don’t make dresses like that for bodies like yours,” snapped her mother, who was short like her daughter but several sizes smaller. “I’ve been telling you for years to lose the weight.”
I bit my tongue, although the conversation was triggering terrible memories. My real mother, Carla, had been hard on me about my size too. After she’d abandoned us and moved back to Georgia, we only saw her a couple times a year, and those visits always involved comments about my appearance.
You look just like me at fourteen, Millie. If you weren’t so heavy, you could try on my prom dress.
What on earth is your dad feeding you? He must not want you to have boyfriends.
You’re never going to be a professional dancer if you don’t control your weight.
For years, I took what she said to heart. I cut gluten and dairy and sugar and fat. I deprived myself of what the rest of my family and friends ate in the misguided attempt to look like the slender, small-boned girls in my ballet classes (pink tights are so fucking brutal), even though it was never going to happen.
And I was miserable and hungry and exhausted all the time. I hated my body, I hated myself, and I started to hate dance. I spent most of my spare time crying in my bedroom. Finally, I went to my dad and Frannie and I admitted I didn’t want to study ballet anymore—I was tired of the way it made me feel about myself. They understood and told me the choice was mine, and they encouraged me to do what would make me happy. They made me feel loved and appreciated and gave me the reassurance I needed to be myself and love myself.
But Taylor didn’t have that kind of parent.
“You know what,” I said, focusing on the teary-eyed bride-to-be in front of me, “I know a few designers with size-inclusive lines. And they make beautiful, sexy, stunning dresses. I’ll email you their names.”
“Really?” Taylor perked up.
“Yes. Also, I’m hosting a fashion show for curvy brides in early March if you’d like to come. Depending on the wedding date you choose, you might see something there you could get in time for a summer wedding.”
“That sounds amazing.” She smiled. “Thank you so much.”
Just after five that evening, my sisters and I ducked into Southpaw Brewing Co, a downtown microbrewery with great food, spacious leather booths, and fantastic service. It was owned by Tyler Shaw, a former MLB pitcher who’d married our Aunt April. When he saw us come in, he came over to greet us and led us to a booth in a quieter area toward the back.