There she sat in the third row of my wedding, my ex-best friend, wearing the very dress whose hundred-dollar alterations had just destroyed a twenty-year friendship.
The sight of that teal chiffon made my hands tremble. Our wedding budget was so tight we were having a potluck reception, and my own dress cost eighty bucks.
But my maid of honor, Jessica, decided her look required a little more investment. An investment she was more than happy to charge to me.
First came the surprise bill for tailoring her thirty-dollar dress. Then came the two-hundred-dollar shoes she guilted me into buying.
She called it “elevating the situation.” I called it theft.
She thought her expensive wedding gift was the final word, but she overlooked one tiny digital detail that would allow me to serve up a cold, quiet revenge that was years in the making.
The Calculated Risk of Friendship: The Eighty-Dollar Question
The decision to marry Mark wasn’t an impulse, but the decision to have the wedding in three months certainly was. We’d been together for seven years, our lives woven together like a comfortable old sweater. A courthouse ceremony seemed practical, but my mom, with a tremor in her voice, made a case for “just a little something.” So, “a little something” it was, with a budget that would make a shoestring look like a python.
My job as a grant writer for a local literacy non-profit was fulfilling, but it didn’t exactly fund a champagne-and-caviar lifestyle. Mark’s salary as a high school history teacher kept us comfortable, paid the mortgage, and funded our son Leo’s endless appetite for graphic novels. We were fine. But a wedding, even a small one, was a financial Everest.
“I can’t do this without a maid of honor,” I told Mark one night, staring at a spreadsheet that was more red than black. “I’ll go crazy.”
He looked up from grading papers, his expression patient. “Ask Jessica. Who else would you ask?”
He was right. Jessica and I had been friends since we were assigned as lab partners in tenth-grade chemistry, a bond forged over the smell of burnt magnesium and a shared disdain for our teacher. She was family. Asking her felt less like a choice and more like a formality.
I met her for coffee the next day. The question hung in the air between us, sweet and predictable as the scent of steamed milk.
“Jess,” I started, twisting a paper napkin into a shredded mess. “Mark and I are… we’re doing it. Getting married.”
Her shriek turned heads. “Oh my God, Sarah! Finally!” She grabbed my hands across the tiny table, her rings cold against my skin. “When? Where? I need details!”
I laid out the bare-bones plan: a local park pavilion, a potluck-style reception catered by our most culinarily-gifted friends, and a dress I’d found on clearance online for eighty dollars. I watched her face for any sign of judgment, but she just nodded enthusiastically.
“So,” I took a deep breath. “There’s a question that comes with all this.”
She grinned, already knowing. “Lay it on me.”
“Will you be my maid of honor?”
Her “yes” was another shriek, followed by a hug that smelled of expensive perfume. As she pulled away, her eyes scanned my face, a flicker of something serious in them. “I’ll find the perfect dress. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“About that,” I said, my stomach tightening. “The budget is… microscopic. I found a dress for you online. It’s simple, but the color is perfect. It’s thirty dollars.”
I held my breath. For a moment, her smile faltered, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hesitation. Then it was back, brighter than before. “Thirty dollars? Sarah, you’re a genius. Of course. It’s not about the dress, it’s about being there for you.”
I felt a wave of relief so profound it almost made me dizzy. This was why she was my best friend. She got it. She always got it.
A Simple Nip and Tuck
The dress arrived a week later in a plastic bag that crinkled with cheap promise. It was a simple, deep teal chiffon number. Not a showstopper, but elegant enough. I brought it over to Jessica’s apartment, a place that always seemed to be in a state of curated, expensive chaos.
She held it up against herself, turning in front of the ornate, gilt-framed mirror in her hallway. “The color is gorgeous, Sarah. Truly.”
“Right?” I felt a little bubble of pride. My bargain-hunting skills were paying off. “It should just need hemming, probably.”
Jessica tilted her head, pinching the fabric at her waist. “It’s a little… shapeless through the middle. And the neckline is a bit high. It’s matronly.”
I bristled slightly. My own eighty-dollar dress had a similar neckline. “Well, it’s a starting point.”
“Oh, totally! A fantastic starting point,” she said quickly, smoothing the fabric down. “I know a tailor, an amazing little Italian woman named Sofia. She does miracles. I’ll just take it to her for a little nip and tuck. Make it perfect for your big day.”
The phrase “amazing little Italian woman” sounded expensive, but I pushed the thought away. Jessica was particular. It was one of the things I usually loved about her—her refusal to settle for mediocrity. In this context, though, it felt like a tiny, flashing warning light.
“Sure,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Whatever you think it needs. Just… you know. Keep it simple.”
“Of course, honey. Simple and elegant. My specialty.” She folded the dress with a reverence I found slightly amusing, laying it carefully back in its plastic bag. “Don’t you worry about this. You have enough on your plate. Consider the dress handled.”
“Thanks, Jess. I owe you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, walking me to the door. “This is what maids of honor are for.”
Over the next two weeks, wedding planning consumed every spare moment. I was negotiating bulk discounts on paper plates, begging my cousin to be our designated DJ, and trying to figure out if Leo would agree to wear a tie without staging a formal protest. The dress was the last thing on my mind. Jessica was handling it.
She called me one afternoon while I was on my lunch break, hunched over my desk trying to finalize a grant proposal.
“Good news!” she chirped. “I just had my final fitting with Sofia. The dress is a dream. You won’t even recognize it.”
A prickle of anxiety went down my spine. “Won’t recognize it? What did she do?”
“Just a few tweaks! She lowered the neckline, took in the waist, added some delicate little darts to give it some shape. It fits like it was made for me. It’s perfect, Sarah. It looks like a thousand-dollar dress now.”
My throat went dry. Darts and new necklines didn’t sound like a simple hemming. They sounded like a reconstruction.
“Wow,” I managed to say. “That’s… great. I can’t wait to see it.”
“You’ll die. Anyway, I’m picking it up on Friday. Just wanted to give you the update!”
She hung up, leaving me in a silence that felt heavy and loud. I stared at my computer screen, the words of the grant proposal blurring into nonsense. A thousand-dollar look for a thirty-dollar dress. A little nip and a tuck. A small, cold knot of dread began to form in the pit of my stomach.
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