I walk to stand beside the pedestal. “I won’t abandon you, but I’m also not making this choice for you.” I grin at her eye roll. “You love Val. Val loves you. You’ve looked incredible in all the dresses. But this isyourfresh canvas, remember? Which dress feels most likeyou?”
Amantha goes back to chewing her lip, sweeping her eyes over the mirror. Something shifts in her expression, emotion alighting deep in her eyes.
Wordlessly, she steps off the pedestal and walks toward the mirror. Stopping a few inches from the glass, Amantha lifts her fingertips and presses them against it. I watch her gray eyes slowly fill with tears before she breaks into a glorious smile.
“It’s me,” she whispers.
The proclamation is so hushed, only I hear. And although I don’t quite understand the intensity or meaning beneath those two words, her expression is clear.
So I step closer and pull her into a gentle side hug. “Then, it’s you.”
Soon our entire party is blubbering, dabbing tissues, and clinking champagne glasses.
Warmth wraps around my heart as I watch Amantha getswallowed up in Val’s sister’s embrace. From what I know of Val’s past, I know this moment means a lot to Camilla, too. Amantha has been through hell and back, and I’m honored to witness her happily ever after.
Susan bustles around her daughter, smoothing satin and tugging the train, her summer blue eyes the epitome of adoration. An ache in my gut begins as a tiny pinprick, spreading until it’s a mile wide.
Jealousy isn’t a word I’d use to describe the feeling. That feels too active, too petty. No, what I’m feeling is a black hole, an empty void that will never be filled.
I picture myself on the pedestal, draped in a stunning gown. I can see Liza there, clapping and squealing right alongside me.
But the second I stitch my mother into the scene, it all starts to fray. She’d be so critical, so disappointed with whatever I chose.
But Susan is not my mother. So I try to soak in her soft energy, absorb her compliments and motherly words at a secondhand rate.
Twenty minutes later, Amantha and I step outside while Camilla and Susan schedule Amantha’s final dress fittings. Amantha zips her navy winter coat over her chambray blue button-up and hugs me.
She breaks our embrace, stepping back. “Val’s picking up Anthony from Ryan’s, and then we’re all headed to Nonna’s to spend the day with Val’s family. You’re welcome to come if you want.” Amantha’s gray eyes are kind, as if she’s attuned to my rising tide of sadness.
I love my best friend, but I’m not going to put a damper on her family get-together. Plus, if she keeps looking at me like a stray puppy, I’m going to start ugly crying. This isherday, and I refuse to disrupt her bridal glow.
“I shouldn’t, but thank you for inviting me.” I change the subject. “Did you say Val’s picking up Anthony from Ryan’s? Yikes. How’s that going?”
Amantha’s mouth twists. “Probably how you think it’s going. Ryan doesn’t spare a word about how much he hates Val being around Anthony. Val despises Ryan, but he would never badmouth Anthony’s dad in front of him. Ever.” Her anger ebbs into something softer. “Val’s gonna make the best dad. I mean, Anthony already loves him so much. Plus, Val’s hot. Did I mention how hot he is?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You might have mentioned it.”
Amantha’s laugh tinkles as Camilla and Susan rejoin us, then they all say goodbye.
I stand on the sidewalk, watching them go.
My day is wide open, and I have no clue what to do with it now. My heart feels bruised from watching my future self on that wedding pedestal.
I know I’m getting better at handling being alone, but going back to an empty apartment is too much right now.
The clouds grow heavy and gray, and snow begins to fall. I trudge aimlessly down the sidewalk before realizing I’m somewhat close to the museum.
An idea sparks a flicker of hope.
One of my SD cards filled with mural photos sits abandoned in my closet of an office. The photos need editing before they go to print. Spending the rest of my Saturday playing with pretty pictures sounds way better than tipsy-crying on my couch.
I flag a taxi, looking forward to the warmth of the cab. After giving the driver the address, I recline against the seat. My phone buzzes with a text.
UNKNOWN: Roses are red, violets are blue, I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you. BTW, you look beautiful today. Pink is definitely your color. -Hopefully Yours
I blanch, flicking my eyes to the driver as if he can save me.
A list of places I’ve been today scrolls through my mind at record speed. My spin bike class held only regulars, minus Julia, who decided that sore nether regions were definitely not worth it. And the coffee shop I stopped into before Pulse Fitness had been bursting with a crowd, impossible for me to remember a single face.
