Page 21 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

O ccasionally over the last few years, my roommates and I have joked about taking a day off together to do something fun, away from the testosterone fumes that permeate the air at work.

Never figured it would be to help me plan my wedding.

“What is my life?” I ask not for the first time today.

“Hmm.” Rose taps her chin as we look at a store window at the outlets. Even though it’s a weekday, the place is packed with tourists who speak all languages under the blue sky. “Honestly, your life is like the telenovelas my mom made me watch with her when I was a kid.”

“What are we doing here?” Hope asks, and for a second I also think her question is as philosophical as mine. Then I catch her motioning at the wedding gowns on the other side of the glass in a literal way. “We can’t carry that in our suitcases on the team charter flight.”

I turn back to the creations. A row of elegant mannequins showcases dresses of all types, mermaid cuts, empire waists, and other things I can’t really name but I objectively know are pretty.

The gowns range from the purest white that hurts my eyes, to the smoothest cream.

Across the store and at the opposite exhibit window are the bridesmaid dresses in all colors and patterns imaginable.

“I don’t know,” I respond frankly. “We said wedding dress and this is where my mind took me.”

“Yes, but we need a casual dress. Like something you could wear for a night out clubbing in Vegas.”

Rose then asks, “So then it doesn’t necessarily have to be white, right? Like, who goes clubbing wearing white?”

“Nobody,” Hope and I say in unison.

I turn my body away. “You’re right, let’s go find clubbing clothes. Besides, I don’t think that anyone who gets drunk and married in Vegas is really thinking about what they’re wearing.”

“And probably most of the times the clothes end up on the floor.” Rose and I turn to look at Hope, Rose with a smirk and I with a quirked brow. “What? Do we need to talk about how babies are made?”

Rose snorts.

I sigh and change the topic entirely, back to square one. “I just can’t believe that this is what we’re doing on our much awaited day off.”

A hand falls over my shoulder, and the tallest of us says, “Don’t worry, we’ll also have brunch at a nice place. Then it’ll feel like this was a normal girl date.”

Except there’s nothing normal about today.

On our list, we have to find dresses for tomorrow night, comfortable shoes that match or compliment, and wedding rings for Miguel and I.

He couldn’t get away from practice today, especially after already taking a day off yesterday to talk with Marty’s school principal.

Instead, he gave me both his measurement and an ornamental ring that I can use to ascertain whether the ring I’m buying—mind, with his credit card—will fit him.

I swear, his ring sample and his card weigh two tons in my purse. Pretty sure it’s actually caused by my guilt for roping him into this.

“Let’s check out that store. I usually love everything they have.” Rose motions at us to follow her, and it takes some maneuvering through the throngs of people to finally make it.

The rush of cool air conditioner that greets us weakens my defenses just a tad, enough to not make me drag my feet as the former beauty pageant girl steers me toward a specific rack.

When I really pay attention, I discover that it’s stuffed with miniskirt dresses. All of them. Not a single one would fully cover my things.

Once more, Hope and I voice the exact same thought. “No.”

“Yes,” Rose counters, calmly. She folds her arms. “Picture this. Our hot coworkers ask us to dance at a club. What’s the one proven method that will keep their attention on us?”

“Our fantastic personalities?” I ask in my deepest sarcasm.

Hope adds, “Our gorgeous heads of hair?”

“That’s a good one,” I tell her, because honestly all three of us have spectacular hair—whether long and straight brown, or copious brown curls, or Alicia Silverstone type of blonde.

“Incorrect.” Rose places her hands on her hips. “The one thing that will hold their attention is what they consume through their eyes. Men are simple that way.”

I empty my lungs dramatically once more.

It’s true. There’s no denying this. However… “I’m not really planning to capture Miguel’s attention or anyone else’s.”

“Sure, but a cute little dress will make the act more believable for when I take pics and videos to share online. Like if you dress in a potato sack I’ll still think you’re a knockout, but the internet is gonna wonder what Miguel saw in you enough to marry you on the spot.”

I deadpan, “My stellar wit?”

“Well adjusted and non superficial people would agree, but they’re in the minority.” She offers me a cross between a smile and a cringe.

Hope narrows her eyes at her roommate. “That was a very nice way to diss the masses.”

“Thank you.” Rose grabs the sides of her skirt and does a little curtesy.

“Fine. We do have to lean on the physical angle to justify why we’re getting married after knowing each other for like two months. But this?” I pull up a dress with more cutouts than fabric. “This isn’t my style.”

“Trust your friend.” Rose points at herself. “I have great eye and also your very best interests in mind.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a changing room with five options, all of them in various shades of pink.

Everyone knows that green is my thing, but we carefully looked at all the options in that color and let’s just say, I wouldn’t like to appear in my wedding pics looking like someone threw slime on me—they were that bad.

“I’m starting to hate my life,” I mutter to myself as I pinch the fabric of one dress that looks like a Bavarian Dirndl.

The blouse-like portion is made of see-through fabric, the low bodice consists of a webbing of lace that would probably not even let me sit comfortably, and the miniskirt is some kind of silky concoction that won’t stand a breeze.

I slide it to the left of the hanger and look at the next option. This one has no shoulders and I immediately know it’s not gonna work, even though the rest of it is cute. My chesticles are larger than average—on a significant scale—and I’m not looking forward to any wardrobe dysfunctions.

The third dress does have straps, but when I lift it up by the fabric it splays open by a thigh slit that probably makes it to my ribcage. Maybe this is supposed to be worn with another dress underneath?

“Rosalina,” I say in my most commanding voice. “If you don’t bring me something reasonable I’m going to give you the cold shoulder for three days straight.”

“ Oh, no . Not the cold shoulder,” she repeats dramatically before sliding the curtain open and offering a handful more options. “Here, I found another rack at the back that has a bit pricier but better options.”

I whine, “We should’ve gone to a thrift store instead.” After all, I have too much mortgage left to pay.

“Absolutely not, the something borrowed is not going to be your wedding dress,” Hope says from somewhere beyond the curtain. It really is a shame that she’s been convinced by Rose that I should look… good, I guess.

Intrinsically there’s nothing wrong with that.

I also love how the pieces in my wardrobe make me feel when I wear them, especially when they flatter my top heavy proportions.

But this? I grab the extra options and close the curtain again.

Whatever dress I come out of this store with is going to feel like the garment I’ll wear while I walk the plank.

Not that marriage is the same as being killed by pirates. Not that this marriage is real anyway.

Ugh, my head hurts.

I pick one of the least obnoxious dresses in that it’s a classic, strappy dress with decent coverage. The only defect is that it’s so hot pink it would even offend Marty.

I walk out with my shoulders slumped. I find Hope wearing a yellow sheath number that looks stunning on her athletic frame, and Rose in a very feminine lilac dress that looks like it was made for a fairy, and shows her miles long legs.

“That’s not fair,” I grouch. “Why do you guys get to wear your favorite colors and I don’t?”

Hope motions at herself. “These don’t look like baby mucus.”

Low in my throat, I mumble, “Fair point.”

“What if we all wear pink?” Rose asks. “That way you won’t feel weird on your own.”

“Do I have to?” Hope frowns.

“Yes, join me in my pain,” I respond firmly. “Anyway, what do you think about this one?”

They assess me quietly for all of three seconds each.

“Boring,” one answers.

“Safe.”

I look down at myself. “For whom? Because I’m really feeling the breeze in this one.”

Rose raises her hand. “Let me rephrase. You look like an average woman in the ‘90s.”

My brow tightens. “And that’s a bad thing why?”

“Because,” she enunciates with extra care, “you don’t want to look average. You have to be the star of your own wedding.”

I refrain from pointing out that the wedding isn’t a real milestone in my life that I’ll tell stories about to my kids. With how much I trust men in general, my kids are probably just going to be felines who won’t pay attention to whatever I babble.

Stomping, I go back inside and close the curtain to try another option. I hear them do the same, and for a while there’s only rustling and grunting.

Somehow, we manage to clock each other and come out at the same time. We take one peek at one another and—Burst out laughing like hyenas.

“What the?—”

“Stop, I can’t?—”

“What is that ?”

“You’re not any better!”

“Stop, my stomach hurts.”

We bend over, slam into each other, and I nearly fall into the curtain because I’ve completely lost my ability to compose myself.

Tears run down Rose’s face. Hope’s laughter has turned into pterodactyl screeches that send us into even more fits.