But her dress. He destroyed her dress the night before our wedding. Like a monster.
I’m going to murder him.
“You can’t murder him,” she says, still pulling handfuls of fabric out of the bag.
“I’m certain I said no such thing out loud.”
“No,” she says, “but you were thinking it, weren’t you?”
“Wholeheartedly.”
“You can’t murder him,” she says simply. “Not now. Not ever.”
I sigh.
She’s still struggling to unearth the gown.
“Forgive me, love, but if all this”—I nod at the garment bag, the explosion of tulle—“is for a single dress, I’m afraid I already know how I feel about it.”
She stops tugging. Turns around, eyes wide. “You don’t like it? You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“I’ve seen enough to know that whatever this is, it’s not a gown. This is a haphazard layering of polyester.” I lean around her, pinching the fabric between my fingers. “Do they not carry silk tulle in this store? Perhaps we can speak to the seamstress.”
“They don’t have a seamstress here.”
“This is a clothing store,” I say. I turn the bodice inside out, frowning at the stitches. “Surely there must be a seamstress. Not a very good one, clearly, but—”
“These dresses are made in a factory,” she says to me. “Mostly by machine.”
I straighten.
“You know, most people didn’t grow up with private tailors at their disposal,” she says, a smile playing at her lips. “The rest of us had to buy clothes off the rack. Premade. Ill-fitting.”
“Yes,” I say stiffly. I feel suddenly stupid. “Of course. Forgive me. The dress is very nice. Perhaps I should wait for you to try it on. I gave my opinion too hastily.”
For some reason, my response only makes things worse.
She groans, shooting me a single, defeated look before folding herself into the little dressing room chair.
My heart plummets.
She drops her face in her hands. “It really is a disaster, isn’t it?”
Another swift knock at the door. “Sir? The gentleman seems very eager t—”
“He’s certainly not a gentleman,” I say sharply. “Tell him to wait.”
A moment of hesitation. Then, quietly: “Yes, sir.”
“Aaron.”
I don’t need to look up to know that she’s unhappy with my rudeness. The owners of this particular Supply Centershut down their entire store for us, and they’ve been excruciatingly kind. I know I’m being an ass. At present, I can’t seem to help it.
“Aaron.”
“Today is your wedding day,” I say, unable to meet her eyes. “He has ruined your wedding day. Our wedding day.”
She gets to her feet. I feel her frustration fade. Transform. Shuffle through sadness, happiness, hope, fear, and finally—
