“Sure. I meant to forward it to you anyway, Coach. You’ll need it before next week.” He dug his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen a few times. A minute later, my phone dinged its email notification. I tapped the app icon and opened the email, quickly scanning the list of names. My eyes froze on the second to last.
Sierra Applegate.
I bit down on my lips to keep them from spreading into a smile.
Looked like Nicole and I were about to be spending a lot more time together.
3
Nicole
The low murmur of voices, punctuated by a laugh here and there, drifted through the living room wall of Molly and Jocelyn’s Spanish-style house to reach me in the kitchen. I pinched a bit of wheatgrass between my fingers and garnished the top of the last glass. There. No hidden surprise ingredients this time—although, the black bean brownie and tofu cheesecake were both delicious, so I didn’t know what the girls were complaining about—and I hadn’t bent to the peer pressure of their toxic taste buds.
I gripped the handles of the tray laden with five full glasses and slipped out of the kitchen to join my friends. Tonight was sewing night, but a quick glance around the room proved my suspicions correct. Not a single pair of Fiskars scissors had been removed from a bag, much less fabric, patterns, or needles. It wouldn’t stay that way. Jocelyn needed to work on Molly’s wedding dress, after all, and the rest of us had been tasked with bridesmaid and flower girl creations. But for the moment, we’d all sip the mocktails I’d made and simply breathe. Maybe I could remind them of the donation they’d promised without getting grilled on the details of the date.
Hey, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?
Amanda’s nose wrinkled as she eyed the tray in my hand. “What’s that?”
I slid the tray onto the coffee table. “Refreshments.”
“I vote Molly take the first sip and tell us how it is.” Betsy pushed her thick curls off her shoulder.
Molly had a strict honesty policy. A compulsion, really. She’d gotten a bit better since being with Ben, but she still adhered to the truth as if she’d bathed in Elmer’s school glue.
Molly reached for a glass and brought it closer to her face to inspect. “What’s ummm…”—she picked out a blade of wheatgrass from the dairy-free whipped cream—“this…garnish?”
Betsy cackled. “Did you get that from the lawn mower bag?”
I placed my hands on my hips. “It’s wheatgrass, and it’s very good for you. Excuse me for loving you guys so much that I want to keep you healthy.”
“Malachi would call that cow food.” Jocelyn smiled. Malachi, her boyfriend, owned and operated a dude ranch. She’d met him when her company held their corporate retreat at his property. She hadn’t even seen a horse in real life before that, but now she was on her way to becoming the most Boho-chic cowgirl on the west coast.
Condensation from the glass moistened my hand as I curled my fingers around the side. I took a long pull, sweet carrot juice and creamy coconut milk sliding down my throat. Smacking my lips together, I said, “They’re called Peter Rabbit mocktails, and they’re delicious.”
The girls still stared dubiously at the orange drinks as if I might have served them poison.
I rolled my eyes and picked the tray back up. “Fine. Let me pop a can of battery acid dissolver, and you guys can slowly rot from the inside out.”
Amanda stopped me with a hand on my arm. She licked her lips. “Wheatgrass, huh? Some of the Stampeder players drink shots of that.” She lifted one of the glasses like it was a champagne flute at a party. She tentatively brought the white coconut cream to her mouth and tipped the glass ever so slightly. Her eyes widened. “It almost tastes like carrot cake.”
Jocelyn held out her hand. “Give me the livestock munchies.”
I passed around the drinks. “Maybe next time I offer you sustenance, you won’t balk so much.”
Molly met my gaze. “I think our blind acceptance of food from your hand went out the window when you made me eat Pinocchio’s conscience.”
“Cricket flour is more sustainable—” I cut myself off. “You know what? You don’t have to worry about that since I’m vegan now.”
“Not that anyway.” Betsy removed all traces of green from her drink.
“With friends like you guys…”
Amanda hooked her arm around my neck, pressing her temple to mine. “You know we love you.”
“Uh huh.”
Molly clapped her hands together. “All right. Enough of this chit chat, ladies. My wedding is in six weeks, and these dresses won’t make themselves.”
Like the fabled bunny chased by Mr. McGregor, the Peter Rabbit mocktails were soon out of sight.
Jocelyn pulled some white cotton-blend material from a canvas bag and started unfolding pieces while Betsy retrieved the dress form she’d made.
A few weeks prior, she’d instructed Molly to don form-fitting undergarments and an extra-long T-shirt. Then the duct tape wrapping had begun. A layer for the body casting, around and around, but after three layers of tape, she had a form. Molly could barely bend to show her waistline, but no one wanted a waistless dress—plus how would Jocelyn know where to put the cute little bow in her design?—so bend Molly did. Betsy had finally cut Molly out of the duct tape with a snipped line up her back.
The dress form took center stage. A headless silver encasement of Molly’s body. Jocelyn unfolded the top piece of cut material, and I grabbed a container of straight pins and held them out to her. With deft movements, she smoothed the material over the form’s bust and started pining. She cut a line up from the waist, added more material, and pinned again, creating darts in the bodice of the dress. She snipped notches into the bottom of the pattern pieces to make sure they lay flat, then smoothed excess into the side seam. After a while, she took a black marker and made dots along the fabric.
“What are those for?” Betsy asked. She and Amanda weren’t really sewers, but they were handy for unpicking seams and cutting out patterns.
“I’m just marking the neckline,” Jocelyn answered. Her design had been pinned to a cork board along with other wedding ideas we’d cut out from magazines. Cakes, flowers, invitations, etc.
“Have I told you how much I love your design?” Molly asked.
One side of Jocelyn’s lips hitched. “Only every day.” She kept marking the side seam and baseline for future alignment.
Jocelyn’s eye for design had been a hidden talent only recently discovered—a childhood dream she’d set aside for more adult responsibilities and financial stability. If it hadn’t been for her shy cowboy, we might have never been privy to her talent.
The dress she’d designed for Molly wasn’t only gorgeous but embodied her personality as well. Simple, elegant, and honest. The wide bateau neckline would showcase Molly’s graceful neck and collar bones. The trimmed waist and bow spoke to her sense of whimsy. We all agreed, however, that the fuller side panels that arched just below her hips held the pièce de résistance within their folds: pockets.
So different than my own wedding dress had been. Instead of friends coming together to shower me with love, bonding over the work of our hands and dreaming of the future together, I’d only had my mother and her ability to put everything into a global perspective. So when she pointed out I could either have the dress of my dreams or use that money for a greater good that would have a far more lasting impact than a single day, I walked out of the bridal boutique with a heavily discounted gown due to the beading turning yellow, a dirty hemline, and a small tear under the armpit. The mermaid silhouette had done nothing for my figure, and I’d been self-conscious of my extra curves being hugged so tightly on my wedding day.