I put my hands on my hips and swivel in front of the three-way mirror to catch every angle. My butt looks otherworldly, but I’m pretty sure this dress would cause my grandmother to drop dead of a heart attack.

“How would your fiancé feel about such a sexy look?” Marcy asks.

Sophie and Carmen fall silent. I try to stall with a long, “Mmmmmm,” and pretend to keep examining my reflection.

“You know, he’s not, like, the hugest fan,” I say, with the distinctly terrifying sensation of speaking without knowing how my sentence will end up. “Like, obviously, not opposed, um, in general. Privately. But for the big day, you know, not necessarily the top priority.”

“He’s excited to keep those special, sexy vibes just between the two of you,” Vivian rephrases cheerfully, clasping her hands together. Her eyes sparkle.

“Yes!” I exclaim. “Exactly. Just us.”

Thank god for publicists—they know how to spin a story.

Marcy’s eyebrow lifts again and it oozes judgment. “You look good, but fine, on to the next one,” she says, shrugging.

We head back to the dressing room, where she helps me out of the first dress and into the second. This is my other pick.

I chose this gown for the long sheer sleeves covered in lace vine appliqués; I thought they’d be practical for a fall wedding on a hotel rooftop. There’s a frighteningly low neckline, the kind I’ve only ever worn on Halloweekend in college, barely held together with a cluster of crystals hovering somewhere between my nipples and my navel. The skirt is a swishy rush of tulle that makes me feel like a ballerina.

Marcy finishes fastening the zipper, fluffs my hair around my shoulders, and steps back to examine my reflection. “Damn, girl.”

My cheeks flush. I sort of like the dress. I mean, I can see why a person would like the dress. The vibe is “sexy woodland nymph,” like something Holden’s fiancé Faye would wear. The skirt is just pure fun; I can imagine myself swirling around a dance floor in it. But the bodice—or lack thereof—makes me feel naked. I’m half a breath away from exposing myself, and that’s not how I want to feel on my wedding day. (My wedding day. There are those words again. It’s easy to forget, surrounded by wedding gowns, that I may not actually be able to pull off this wedding at all. At least not the kind of wedding where the groom actually shows up.)

“Let’s show your crew,” Marcy suggests, pulling open the door of the dressing room before I can protest.