The floral sundress. Too casual. Next.
The burgundy wrap dress that always makes me feel confident. I hold it up, studying it. Flowy. Forgiving. Won't show anything. Perfect.
Except it's a wrap dress at a wine event and I'll be paranoid all day that it's coming undone.
"Em?" Miles appears in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. "You okay?"
"Fine." I'm holding three dresses and on the verge of tears over fabric. "Just deciding what to wear."
He looks at the pile of rejected clothes on the bed, then at me. "The blue one's nice."
"Too tight."
"The black one?"
"Too depressing."
"The burgundy?"
"It's a wrap dress."
"And that's... bad?"
"At a wine event? Yes." I sound insane. I'm aware I sound insane.
Miles sets his coffee on the dresser and walks over, taking the dresses from my hands. He sorts through my closet with surprising efficiency and pulls out a sage green maxi dress I forgot I owned.
"This one," he says. "Comfortable. Professional. Won't make you paranoid."
I stare at the dress. It's perfect. Flowy, empire waist, looks polished but feels like pajamas.
"How did you?—"
"I pay attention." He hands it to me with a small smile. "Get dressed. I'll make you toast."
He leaves before I can respond, and I'm left standing there holding the perfect dress and wondering if my husband is secretly psychic or if I'm just that obvious.
Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed, hair in a low bun, makeup carefully applied to hide the fact that I've been crying at random intervals for two days. The pickles I bought yesterday are inmy purse. Two jars. Because one jar at a professional wine exhibition is crazy, but two jars is... still crazy, but at least I have backup.
Miles drives us to Celtic Knot in his car. Mine still has empty pickle jars rolling around in the backseat and I can't face the judgment.
"You ready for this?" he asks as we pull into the parking lot.
"It's a wine exhibition. I've been to dozens."
"True. But this one has your brothers and a corporate buyer and apparently your entire professional network."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"I'm just saying—you don't have to be perfect today. You can just be you."
I look at him. Really look at him. He's wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt, looking unfairly handsome and completely calm, like he isn't married to a woman who's currently spiraling.
"What if I don't know how to be just me anymore?" I hear myself ask.
His hand finds mine. "Then I'll remind you."
The Celtic Knot exhibition is already in full swing when we arrive. The tasting room has been transformed—tables covered with bottles, professional lighting, servers circulating with wine and hors d'oeuvres. At least sixty people milling around, and I recognize half of them.
