“My beautiful girl,” she says. “I’m so happy for you.”
She means it. They both mean it. And they don’t know the half of it.
Ma knows the truth. But she’s looking at me like she sees something I don’t. Like maybe the truth is more complicated than either Matteo or I realized.
The satin is cool against my skin, but I’m flushed underneath, my pulse ticking high in my throat. Standing here in this dress, with both of our mothers crying over me, the guilt hits sharp and twisting. I’m lying to my family. Letting them believe something that isn’t true.
But underneath the guilt is something worse.
Longing.
I want this to be real. I want to walk down the aisle toward Matteo and mean every word of my vows. I want Sunday dinners and motorcycle rides and waking up next to him every morning for the rest of my life.
I want to deserve the way these women are looking at me.
The wanting is so big that it scares me. I’ve wanted things before. Believed in things before. And Viktor taught me exactly how that ends.
But Matteo isn’t like Viktor. He’s proven that a hundred times over. And standing here in this dress, looking at myself in the mirror, I can almost believe that I’m allowed to have this. That I’m allowed to be happy.
Almost.
The moment passes. I blink, and the tears retreat back to wherever they came from. I smile at our mothers and let them fuss over me for another few minutes before going to change.
Celeste takes my measurements with brisk efficiency, promising the alterations will be done in plenty of time. “Rush jobs are my specialty,” she says with a wink, and I suspect that’s another thing Matteo arranged.
Matteo’s credit card is on file, so there’s no bill to deal with. Another thing he handled without being asked. Another quiet kindness from a man who insists he’s only good for violence.
We leave the shop together, everyone in high spirits, discussing where to go for lunch. I feel lighter than I have in days. Whatever else is true about this situation, I found a dress I love, and that feels like a victory.
Harper’s phone rings.
She pulls it out and frowns at the screen. “Unknown number.”
“Spam,” Audrey quips. “Don’t answer.”
“It might be important.”
She steps away to take the call. The rest of us keep chatting, debating between Vietnamese and Italian, when I hear it.
A gasp. Sharp and sudden.
Then the clatter of a phone hitting the sidewalk.
I turn around. Harper is frozen in place, her face drained of color, her hands shaking at her sides.
I’m in front of her in three steps, grabbing her shoulders.
“Harper, what is it? What happened?”
Her eyes find mine, glazed and distant. Like she’s looking at me from very far away.
“Julian,” she whispers. “He’s in the hospital.”
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“He was hit by a car.”
