“Marigold is stirring up trouble, and Gabriel had to go see his dad.”
“I hope that nice boy isn’t following on the same footpath as his father. That would be a waste.”
“Mm,” I say noncommittally, wondering when she’ll peel herself away to go back to being the social butterfly I know her to be.
“Would you make sure you ask your dad for a dance later?”
I shoot her a wary glance, not knowing if she’s being genuine or mocking me. The blank slate of her perfect face doesn’t give me much to work with, so I err on the side of her being nice.
A stance that seems accurate when she adds, “I know he’s looking forward to being first to spin you around the dance floor for the last time.”
The last time.
Because every time from here on out, it’ll be my fiancé or husband who takes on that role.
Much as that thought excites me, it also hollows out my chest in tiny spoonfuls. My father has always had such a large role in my life. The idea he’ll now take a back seat to another man sends me into a spiral of nostalgia.
I can close my eyes and see him leading me onto the dance floor a dozen times over the years. Feel the warmth of his pride as he completes a complex manoeuvre and sees me keep up with his fancy steps.
Tonight, just as I become an adult, I feel like part of me is breaking away. Like growing up isn’t about adding to my life but about watching old parts of me chip free, never to be seen again.
Suddenly, it’s hard to swallow.
“Excuse me,” I blurt, thrusting my glass at a passing waiter. I run to the bathroom before she can frame another question. The gold and glass features of the restaurant twirl before my eyes as I race from the room, dazzling light that lingers too long once it hits my vision.
The first indicator a migraine is on the way.
Inside the bathroom, I run water on the insides of my wrists, trying to shake the buzzing in my ears. The sudden rush of anxiety is silly. I want to be a grown up. Accepted as an adult. I’m not someone who clings to childish possessions in an aborted effort to turn back the clock.
But I still find it hard to catch my breath.
Everything’s changing.
I want to embrace that as a good thing, but there’s a thread of fear there as well. As much as I want to, I can’t turn back the clock and return to my younger self, free of all responsibilities except going to school and trying to make her parent proud.
Soon, I’ll be married. Next, I’ll be the parent.
I grip the basin, the room swaying with greater gusto while I compulsively swallow, gripped by nausea at the worst possible time.
The glint from the lights has turned into a jagged zigzag that pulses across my vision. I need a cool dark room where I can lie silently, waiting for the torment to be over. Instead, I have a restaurant full of guests waiting to celebrate a milestone with me.
Ignoring the clamping of my throat, I suck in a handful of water and swish it around my mouth, shuddering at the metallic taste. After using the facilities, I wash my hands and stare at the mirror one last time.
It’s okay. My reflection is pale, but that just makes my lips and hair stand out from my skin. Matches me more closely to my white dress.
I can do this. It’s only pain.
I push open the door, in such a hurry to get back to the main room that I bump straight into a man talking on his phone outside. The device goes flying and I rock back a step, my zigzag now taking up half my visual field.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a large hand clamps onto my arm.
CHAPTERTWO
CRIMSON
“Sorry,” I mutter, scrambling to recover. When the grip on my arm releases, I chase the phone and pick it up, a male voice still squawking from the receiver as I pass it across. “Here.”
I can’t raise my eyes; the lights overhead spark off the aura still pulsing in my vision. Instead, I stare down at his shoes.
