Two hours later, I’m sitting in a plush chair in one of Denver’s most expensive spas getting lavender oil massaged into my temples. My mom is beside me, flipping through wedding magazines and chatting away in a one-sided conversation I’m barely part of. The air is warm and faintly scented with eucalyptus and citrus, and pale stone floors are heated while natural light pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows, softened by sheer linen panels. It’s the perfect environment for relaxation and rejuvenation… and yet, I’m tense as a brick wall.
“You could do something elegant, like lace sleeves,” she says, holding up a page. “Or maybe something modern. Jayce seems like he’d love something sleek and sophisticated.”
I nod automatically. “Mm-hm.” She has no idea what Jayce would like, and honestly, neither do I.
“And the venue! Oh, sweetheart, Denver has some stunning options. Rooftop gardens, mountain views, ballrooms with chandeliers the size of cars. Imagine you and Jayce dancing under all those lights.”
Each word presses into me like a thumb on a bruise.
Jayce wouldn’t care about lace.
Jayce wouldn’t care about chandeliers.
Jayce isn’t my fiancé. Not really.
None of this is real. Mom is planning out a fantasy that will never actually happen.
She looks so happy. Radiant. This is everything she’s ever wanted for me.
I remember when I was about seven years old, she took me to her giant closet and showed me her wedding dress. She held it against her and twirled around the room, a sparkle in her eyes.
I thought she looked like a princess.
“Someday, you’ll get to wear a white dress of your own,” she’d gushed. “You’ll be the most beautiful bride ever, Sutton.”
I’d smiled, genuinely excited at the prospect, and said, “Yay! I can’t wait, Mommy!”
I’m not so innocent and naive anymore, but I still love my mom and I don’t want to ruin her dream. So I smile and nod. I keep up the ruse, even though I know when it ends, it’ll break her heart. No matter what excuse Jayce and I come up with for ending things, Mom will be crushed. No amount of lavender oil head massaging is going to melt away the guilt building up within me.
After the spa, she drags me to a wedding boutique filled with gorgeous dresses and my stomach knots.
“Mom, I don’t think this is a good idea,” I try to protest.
“Just try a few!” she insists. “You don’t have to pick one today, obviously, but it’ll be so fun. And who knows! Maybe you’ll get some ideas.”
A little voice in the back of my head is telling me not to do this. It’s too much. Taking things too far and making them too real.
However, when I gaze into my Mom’s eager expression, I can’t say no.
“All right,” I sigh. “We can try on a few.”
She lets out an excited shriek and grabs my hand, dragging me into the shop. We don’t have an appointment, but that doesn’t matter when Mom flashes her credit card and drops our last name. The shop’s consultants are all too happy to help us then.
Mom and the consultants make their way through the shop, picking out dresses while I trail behind them, nodding and smiling and agreeing to whatever they choose for me to try on. I try not to look at any of the gowns myself, because I’m not going to really wear one, so why risk actually falling in love with one? Once they’ve picked out about ten dresses or so, I’m taken to the back and ushered into a fitting room. I stare at myself in themirror as I step into the first dress. My hands shake and I can’t breath as the consultant zips me into a trumpet-style satin gown with a scooped neckline that makes me look curvy and fits me like a fucking glove.
Oh God. My eyes try to well up. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done this.
When I step out, my mom gasps, hands covering her mouth. “Oh, honey…”
Her eyes sparkle with excitement. It takes everything in me not to cry… but not because the dress is so beautiful I’m overwhelmed with happiness.
“You look amazing,” she says softly. “Jayce won’t be able to breathe when he sees you.”
A shard of guilt lodges deeper in my ribs.
Jayce won’t see this dress. He won’t see any dresses. He won’t even see me walk down an aisle, and neither will she.
I grip the skirt until my knuckles whiten. “Mom…”
