She enters hoisting three garment bags over her head and sets each one on the metallic dressing room rack with a satisfying clack. As she unzips the first bag and pulls out the miles of fabric inside, it suddenly occurs to me that she’s about to see me naked. I’ve worn the correct undergarments, per Sophie’s instructions: a nude strapless bra with a nude seamless thong. And it’s not that I dislike my body. I feel comfortable in my skin on most days, even if I don’t love the dimpling cellulite along my thighs or the way my stomach presses into the waistband of my jeans after a big dinner. I feel lucky in that regard, that I’ve escaped the debilitating body image issues that plague most of my friends. But that doesn’t mean I want to necessarily strip down in front of this saleswoman who sees dozens of brides every week who are #sheddingforthewedding. I don’t even have a real wedding to shed for; pasta is my largest food group.

Marcy holds out the first dress expectantly. “Ready?” she asks, arching a manicured eyebrow.

I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I untie the silk knot at my waist and awkwardly place the robe on the seat behind me. My skin crawls with goose bumps. Somehow, stepping into the open bodice of a wedding dress makes this entire experience feel tangible in a way that turns my blood cold. If all goes according to plan, I’m really getting married. I’m actually committing to this. A wedding. A husband. I’ve known this, of course, for weeks. But with a pool of lace swirling around my ankles, it suddenly feels more real than ever before.

Marcy expertly shimmies the gown up my legs and torso and sets on fastening the row of buttons along my spine. This dress is a sexy, skintight mermaid silhouette made from elaborately embroidered lace. There’s a sweetheart neckline, a tightly cinched waist, and see-through panels between the arcs of lace that expose flashes of skin. I drink in my reflection in the long mirror. True, this is one of the gowns that I had selected from the binder, but I suddenly hate it.

Marcy hands me a pair of white strappy sandals in my size and cheers, “Let’s go!”

“Okay?” I respond, slipping the shoes on.

My legs feel wobbly as I exit the dressing room and make the long, slow walk to the center of the atelier. Marcy helps me up onto a pedestal lodged between three full-length mirrors and the couch where Sophie, Carmen, and Vivian seem to be immersed in a conversation about moisturizers containing SPF.

“Oh!” Carmen shouts, just as Sophie mutters, “Oh . . .”

“It’s a lot,” Sophie adds.

“You look super fucking hot,” Carmen says.

“But like, maybe in a bad way,” Sophie offers.