I turn to face the mirror and wince. My boobs look like they’re staging an escape attempt. The silhouette is all wrong, cutting me in weird places. And the flare at the knee makes me walk like a penguin.
“Next,” I say firmly.
The second dress has sleeves. Long, lacy, suffocating sleeves that make me feel like I’m being swallowed by a doily.
“The neckline is nice?” Harper tries.
“I look like I’m auditioning to haunt a Victorian mansion.”
“A little bit,” she admits.
Next.
Third dress: ballgown. Massive. So much tulle that I can barely fit through the doorway. I look like a wedding cake topper.
“Very... princessy,” Sarah says.
“I can’t feel my ribs.”
“That’s probably not ideal.”
Next.
Fourth dress is too plain. Fifth is too busy. Sixth makes me look like a satin-wrapped sausage. Seventh is somehow both too plain and too busy, which I didn’t even know was possible.
By the time I’ve tried on half a dozen dresses, I’m exhausted, moderately sweaty, and starting to wonder if maybe I’m just not a wedding dress person. Maybe I should get married in a nice sundress. Or jeans and a cute top. That’s fine, right?
“I think I need a break,” I tell Celeste, slumping against the dressing room wall.
She studies me for a moment, head tilted, before her eyes light up.
“Wait here,” she says. “I have one more thing to show you.”
She disappears, and I hear her rummaging around somewhere in the back of the shop. When she returns, she’s carrying a single dress. She has the triumphant look of someone who’s just solved a difficult puzzle.
The dress is ivory satin with a lace-covered bodice. Even on the hanger, it’s beautiful. Simple but elegant. Classic but not boring.
“We just unpacked this one this morning,” Celeste says. “We haven’t even put it on the floor yet, but I think it might be exactly what you need.”
She helps me into it, the fabric sliding over my skin like water. Cool and smooth and perfect.
When she finishes buttoning up the back, I step out of the dressing room and onto the platform.
Silence.
Then my mother makes a sound. A small, choked noise that could be the beginning of a sob.
I turn to face the mirror.
Oh.
The bodice is delicate lace over satin, fitting like it was made for me. The thin straps sit perfectly on my shoulders, crossing elegantly behind my back. The skirt is layered, not quite a ballgown but close, skimming the floor with just enough drama to feel special. And down my spine, a row of pearl buttons catches the light.
Ma appears behind me, and when our eyes meet in the mirror, hers are shining with tears.
“It’s perfect,” she says softly. “You’reperfect, Sierra. I’m so happy my son is going to marry you.”
My mother joins us, stepping in front of me and placing her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes are wet too.
