Page 109 of Dear Future Husband

In twenty minutes, she had each piece of clothing stripped from my closet. It had all been strewn about our room when she announced we would be going shopping.

I didn’t understand why I would need a new dress. But even Chelsea, who arrived earlier that Friday morning, insisted a dress shopping trip was in order. So, the three of us piled into Chelsea’s car and sped straight for the mall.

I tried on over thirty dresses, in colors of pink, lilac, red, green and colors I didn’t know the names of. Chelsea and Penny had dismissed each one. Sending me hiking my skirts back to the dressing rooms to try on the next gown.

“Don’t stress, Bells. We’ll find you the perfect dress for tomorrow,” Penny called from outside the dressing room.

I didn’t answer right away because I was holding my breath, trying to squeeze into a skintight, black, strapless dress bedecked in rhinestones. I feared that one full exhale would have each stitch in the hem snapping.

“I don’t think I’m the stressed one here, Penn,” I puffed through a strained, tightly held breath, but Penny wasn’t near the dressing room anymore by the sound of it.

I could hear her voice across the store squealing with excitement, “Chelsea, you angel, yes! This one is perfect!”

Her tittering steps approached just as I finally got the black dress to fully glove my body. I opened the door to her standing there with the biggest, cheesiest grin on her pale, freckled face.

“You’re hot,” she said, giving me a quick, appreciative once over. “But take that off. This is the one,” she announced, pushing a new dress into my arms.

“Well, grab me some scissors because I’m not getting this thing off without tearing it. Or dislocating a joint,” I speculated, gesturing to the black fabric tightening and pulling at my curves.

Penny twirled away from me to Chelsea, who perched on a small sofa in the common room each dressing stall opened up to.

“All hands on deck, Chels!” she hollered, and Chelsea needed no more instruction. She was up and all three of us went to work on the dress.

“Okay, I’ll take top, you take bottom,” Penny instructed Chelsea as we stuffed ourselves into the small stall, clearly oblivious to the ulterior meaning behind her comment.

I slid my bestie a sidelong, suggestive glance.

She scoffed. “You’ve been spending way too much time with Chad Larson. Get your head out of the gutterand relax your muscles. This is going to be a tight fit,” she said, studying the small space we had to work with.

This time, even Chelsea snickered like a preteen boy with me at the unintentional innuendo.

Penny rolled her eyes. “Alright ladies, on my mark, get set—Pull!”

After a few minutes of wheezing laughter, shouts of “suck in” and a butt-load of humiliation for me, we finally peeled me free of the stupid dress.

Now, I exited the dressing stall in the most beautiful article of clothing I’d ever seen. And by the look of Chelsea and Penny’s stunned, slack-jawed demeanors, they felt the same.

Penny covered her growing, giddy grin with both hands, kicking her feet on the ground. Chelsea put a hand over her heart, tears lining her eyes.

The dress was formfitting from my torso to my thighs, with string straps and a skirt that snaked the floor as I walked. The fabric was silky soft and shimmered in the light. But it was smooth, no rhinestones or glitter need be applied. The neckline dipped, a flattering fit to my small chest. The bodice fell open in the back, reconnecting to hug my waist and follow the hourglass shape of my hips.

The dress was decadent, absolutely stunning. The color, though, was breathtaking. A light, pale forget-me-not blue that made my eyes sparkle like the sea.

I spun to face Chelsea and Penny, who both stared in awe. “It’s perfect!” Penny squealed. Chelsea only nodded with a watery smile.

“You think Sam will like it?” I asked and as I expected but refused to acknowledge, both Penny's and Chelsea’s faces fell.

“Oh—uh, yeah. Sam will love it,” Penny said.

***

Penny, Daniel, Chelsea, and I filed into our seats as the boys entered the stadium. The football team was a wave of excitement and determination as they ran across the field. The crowd went wild, erupting into a chaos that made my ears ring.

I scanned the team, noting how Bear stood taller than the rest. Larson was the one hyping the team up, each down. Williams hung his arm over another teammate.

I knew I should’ve been searching for Sam’s number nine, but my eyes fell on the Turner, number thirty-three jersey. And that is where my attention remained for the duration of the game.

“I’m so proud of them,” Chelsea said as she and I stood from our seats, the last ten seconds of the clock running out.