What I couldn’t survive—what I suddenly understood I couldn’t keep living with—was never knowing if he would’ve said yes if I’d been braver.
I walked to King Street with my sunglasses on and my heart doing that low, steady flutter it did when my body knew I was about to risk something real.
I wasn’t shopping because I needed a dress.
I was shopping because I needed a version of myself that didn’t flinch.
A version that didn’t apologize for wanting.
The first boutique was all linen and pastels, soft and sweet and wrong. The second was louder—sequins, cutouts, dresses that felt like they belonged in a club, not in a candlelit steakhouse where you might confess your love to the boy you’d known forever.
The third store had dark wood floors and brass accents and the kind of dresses that looked like they had secrets.
That was where I found it.
It wasn’t red—too obvious, too “look at me.” It wasn’t black—too safe, too “I can disappear if I need to.” It was deep emerald, the color of polished glass bottles and Spanish moss shadows.
Satin. Simple neckline. Bare shoulders. A slit that wasn’t aggressive, but wasn’t shy either.
When I stepped into the fitting room and slid it on, the fabric cooled my skin for a second before warming to me like it was learning the shape of my body.
I turned toward the mirror.
And there she was.
Not “Charleston Harbor Hero.”
Not “the girl who panics on bridges.”
Not “Wyatt’s childhood friend.”
Just me.
A woman with copper hair and clear eyes and a throat tight with hope she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t have.
I stood there for a long moment, hands resting lightly on my hips, and let myself feel it.
The quiet confidence.
The femininity.
The steadiness.
Truth.
“I’ll take it,” I told the associate before my brain could start bargaining.
Outside, the sun had shifted—afternoon leaning in. People moved in and out of storefronts with iced coffees and shopping bags and no idea that I felt like I was walking toward a cliff.
But I wasn’t scared the way I’d been on the Ravenel Bridge.
This was a cliff I was choosing.
The second part of my plan was softer. Stranger. More personal.
A gift.
Not because I needed to bribe him into loving me. God. That would’ve been humiliating in a way I couldn’t tolerate.
