The next weekend, my mother strides to the door of an out-of-the-way boutique in Brooklyn and gestures grandly to the white curlicue letters etched on the glass. “Ta-da. May I present the best-kept secret in all of the wedding industry?”

Mackenzie eyes the name—Susie’s Dresses and More. “Tell the truth, Mrs. Sterling. Why does Susie want to keep this a secret? What is she hiding?”

My mother plays along. “So she can offer the best service to a few exclusive insiders. You have to be in the know to find it.” My mother, of course, is in the know. When I mentioned Mackenzie was struggling to find the right dress for her wedding this summer, she insisted on intervening.

I mean helping. She insisted on helping.

Mackenzie points to the swirling letters on the sign. “Level with me. What’s the more, Mrs. Sterling? Does Susie have a giant collection of creepy dolls behind the racks of dresses? I can handle it. I just want to know what I’m getting into.”

My mother laughs at Mackenzie’s antics. My mother has always laughed at Mackenzie’s antics. “Come inside. Let’s find you the perfect dress. And maybe something more,” she says, adopting a spooky tone at the end.

She heads inside, and I grab Mackenzie’s arm, whispering, “The more refers to vintage nipple clamps.”

Mackenzie’s hands fly to her chest. “Ouch.” She lowers her hands. “Also, you have a dirty mind, you saucy minx.”

“Lately, that seems to be the case.”

“Ooh, have you hit the want-to-hump-everything-in-sight-mester?”

I laugh. “Yes. It’s gotten so bad that my couch pillows told me they had a headache last night.”

We go inside, and it turns out the more refers to a whole range of dresses beyond wedding ones, including a collection of ’20s-style mermaid frocks that I ooh and ahh over as Mackenzie tries on a gown.

“This one has some room in it,” Mom tells me, meaning the dress. “If you needed something down the line for an event or whatnot, you’d look good in it in your condition.” She runs a hand down the silky fabric of a rose-gold flapper-esque dress.

“You can say it, Mom. While I’m knocked up,” I supply.

She laughs. “‘Condition’ suits me fine.”

“Personally, I prefer bat in the cave. Do you like that euphemism?”

“I’m not going to call it a bat in the cave,” she says, shaking her head, a smile on her lips.

“How about in the pudding club? One of my clients said that the other day when I told her.”

My mother’s hazel eyes widen, and she grips my shoulder. “Have you started telling clients?”

I laugh. “Yes, Mom. They’re not freaking out over my horrible condition.”

“Darling, I’m not freaking out. I’m merely concerned, and always will be concerned because I’m your mother.” She dips her voice lower. “But what did they say?”

“They all invited me to their spinster clubs, of course. Said I’d be a welcome addition since I’d be living the life of an old maid soon.” I’m clearly feeling a little feisty today with Mommykins. I’m not sure why I have the desire to poke her, but maybe it’s because the reaction is worth it.

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “I never said you’d be an old maid. I simply don’t want you to limit your love opportunities.”

“Too bad my couch already turned me down,” I quip.

She furrows her brow. “I don’t understand.”

And that’s a damn good thing. “Never mind. Anyway, everyone’s been great when they learn about my pudding club admission.”

She breathes what sounds like a sigh of relief.

“Hey, do you know where the expression in the pudding club comes from?” Mackenzie’s strong voice carries from the dressing room.

“No, dear, where does it come from?” my mother asks.

“British etymology,” I say.

“Used notably by the writer James Curtis in the novel The Gilt Kid in 1936,” Mackenzie adds.

“It was an answer to a trivia question the other night,” I say to my mom, explaining how Mackenzie can whip out an answer so quickly. “Shockingly, Mackenzie answered it correctly.”

“Of course I did, especially since I was a member myself more than thirteen years ago,” she shouts, then unlocks and emerges from the dressing room in a flurry of white and beauty, wearing a tea-length swing dress with a sleeveless lace bodice that’s utterly gorgeous.

“Oh my God,” my mother and I gasp in unison.

“It’s perfect,” I whisper.

“It’s stunning,” my mom adds reverently.

“Is it really?” Mackenzie asks, nerves flickering through her voice. “I can’t believe I’m actually getting married, and Kyle is going to walk down the aisle with me.”

I can’t tear my gaze away from the dress—it’s perfectly bridal with the lacy top, it’s thoroughly casual with the bare arms, and it’s completely fresh and fun with the swing skirt. It’s my best friend, through and through.

“It’s the one and only dress I’m letting you wear,” I tell her.

When she heads back inside the dressing room, my mom whispers, “Her son is walking her down the aisle? Not her father?”

“She thought it was fitting to walk with her son. Mackenzie’s quirky. She marches to the beat of her own drum. Also, she was a single mom too.”

“I know,” my mom says, staring in Mackenzie’s direction then sighing contentedly. “I like her.”

“Me too,” I say, glad Mom and I can agree on that.

Once Mackenzie is done, her gaze catches the mermaid dress. “Ooh, wouldn’t that look great on Roxy, with her pudding club belly, even when it gets bigger?” she says to my mom.

“I was telling her that very same thing.”

I gasp in an over-the-top fashion. “Mother, but then everyone would know I have a condition.”

She laughs. “You’re seventeen weeks. You can’t hide it much longer. And at some point, you might need a dress that looks elegant and lovely.”

“Does that mean you’re not ashamed of me?”

She furrows her brow. “I was never ashamed of you. And I can’t wait to dote on my grandbaby.” She wraps her arms around me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Never ashamed of you,” she adds for emphasis.

I smile, feeling a little warm and fuzzy about my mom for a brief moment. “Thank you.”

Mackenzie nudges me. “That dress isn’t only elegant. It’s smoking hot. You could wear it the next time you see Miles.”

My mom’s eyebrows rise. “Miles? Who’s Miles?”

Mackenzie clasps her hand to her mouth. “Oops.”

The inquisition begins. “Are you seeing someone?”

I laugh. “Nope. He’s a friend, Mom. Just a good friend, and Mackenzie likes to pretend something more is going to happen, but nothing is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Incredibly sure. He’s William’s client.”

“It’s a lovely dress though.”

Five minutes later, my mom has purchased the garment and thrust it into my hands.

* * *

Mackenzie holds out her wrists when we grab a table at our favorite pub that afternoon for the Saturday trivia contest. “Cuff me. Throw away the key. Lock me up.”

“It’s no big deal,” I say when she apologizes for the twenty-ninth time.

“Are you going to fire me as your friend?”

I tap my chin. “Would I have to give you a severance package?”

Mackenzie frowns. “No, because I don’t deserve one. I’m so sorry for saying that in front of your mom. It’s like the time Campbell was telling me about Fight Club, since he’d started reading it, and he couldn’t quite figure out what was up with the narrator, and I said, ‘Oh, you mean because he’s—”

I place my palm over her mouth. “I know that, but there are other people around who might not. This is a no-spoiler zone.”

I lower my hand, and she mimes zipping her lips. “Besides, I don’t care if my mom knows Miles and I are friends. Nothing is happening.”

No matter how much I want it to. No matter how much I like him.

“Darn,” Mackenzie says, snapping her fingers.

“Darn what?”

“I was hoping you were going to tell me you had another hot make-out kiss,” she says, since I told her what happened at the reunion.

I laugh, shaking my head, doing my best to act as if I don’t want that very thing. “It was simply part of the reason I was there that night.”

“Sounds like it is part of the reason why he’s spending so much time with you.”

“Maybe he just likes hanging out with me,” I say, because the other possibilities are too alluring. They tempt my hope. They tempt my heart.

“Well, duh. But I bet he’s also secretly hoping to spend time horizontally with you.”

The hostess taps on her mic then announces the Saturday afternoon contest is about to begin, saving me, at least for a moment. Because I do want to spend time with him horizontally.

Vertically.

Perpendicularly.

“We agreed not to go there,” I say, sidestepping her comment, and I stand by that decision. There are too many reasons to avoid the horizontal lane—my brother, my baby. “Plus, my mom is now one more reason I can’t let anything happen with him.”

Mackenzie arches a curious brow. “Why’s that?”

“I couldn’t live with myself if I gave my mother a reason to say, ‘I told you so.’”