They’ve got everything from fairy tale princess to woodland nymph to Vegas stripper, mixed in with classic beauties covered in expensive lace and hand-sewn beading. My dress is here, I know it is. But in the three appointments I’ve made, I haven’t found it. Yet.

I need perfection.

It has to be. Everything about my wedding has to be perfect in order to do it right for Papa.

“I’m so happy for you!” Abigail declares, rushing forward and pulling me into a fierce hug. A moment later, I feel another set of arms wrap around me, Archie’s, and I’m encased in a group hug.

“Hey, guys!” I gasp as I feel my bridal shapewear corset, a marvelous invention that gives me the perfect hourglass figure, squeeze me to within an inch of my life. Any more and I swear it’ll crush my ovaries. “I know you’re both excited for me, but I can’t breathe!”

No one told me trying on wedding dresses and getting the right shape could be this painful. I thought it was come in, try on a few dresses, and after a few twirls and happy tears, be done.

“Shit, sorry!” Abi and Archie exclaim in near unison. As Archie jumps back, Abi tries to loosen my corset but fails as there’s too much dress fabric in the way. “I forgot how tight we had to pull it to get you into this thing.”

“I’d blame it on the pa-pa-pa-pasta!” Archie sings, doing a not half-bad riff on Blame It by Jamie Foxx, while measuring my curves through fingers held in a square like he’s a cameraman looking for my good side. His puckered lips and sharp brow remind me of Zoolander, and I’m waiting for him to say something about ‘Blue Steel’, but it doesn’t come.

Still, I can’t help but burst into laughter at his antics then gasp as the corset tightens even further. Shit, is this damn corset alive? “Hey!” I rasp, leveling a stern finger Archie’s way and defending the curves I was blessed with through a particularly short and fierce round of puberty. “I’m half Italian. Pasta, pizza, lasagna, and red wine are a way of life for me, okay?”

With zero apology, he traces my shape reflecting in the mirror, which is admittedly a little fuller looking in this unflattering white taffeta ballgown that’s a definite no-go. “No one’s commenting on your curvy figure, love. There damn sure ain’t nothing wrong with a little a junk in the trunk. Just look at Kim Kardashian.” He waits a moment and then adds under his breath, but still loud enough for Abi and me to hear, “Only in America can someone turn an ass and a sex tape into a multi-billion-dollar family empire!”

The next gown is wrong too, and the one after that is even worse.