There are a few arguments when it comes to the gown I’ll wear when I meet the men. The show wants me in a frothy, pink, princess dress, with enough tulle to outfit an entire ballet school.
I don’t do pink and frothy. Makes me think of the unicorn foam back home at Coffee for the Sole.
Ria comes up with a compromise: it’s a ballgown, but it’s a dark indigo, with jet-black and silver beads and sequins scattered over the heavy fabric. It’s fitted at the top but flares out at the waist, held up by tiny, glittery straps.
I’m the night sky. The dark princess rather than the fairy tale version. I am Elphaba, not Glinda.
I like it.
They set up an entire suite at the hotel for me, and I have a blessed few moments by myself before the men will arrive in their cavalcade of limousines. I spent most of this reprieve staringat myself in a full-length mirror, trying to convince myself that someone will find me lovable.
It’s not as easy as it should be.
Outwardly, I look amazing. Alexa, my stylist, is a wizard with a makeup brush and she’s highlighted everything that needs to be and hides the details that don’t need to be seen. My hair, falling to my shoulders in soft waves, is almost back to my natural reddish blonde.
Strawberry blonde, my mother used to call it.
My mother…
I can never predict when it hits me, the wave of grief that feels as fresh as it was when I woke up in the hospital and Spencer told me she was gone.
I miss my mother. I miss her every single day. Some days are good, and I can be happy and social. Normal. Some are not, and I prefer to be by myself. But some days, I really, really wish she were still here, so much that there is an ache in my chest.
Today is one of those days.
I stare at myself in the mirror, my lips with the slick of Taylor Swift-red lipstick, quirking and pursing like I’m sucking on a sour candy.
No candy. I’m just trying not to cry.
“I’m doing this thing, Mom,” I whisper into the quiet room. “I wish you were here. Or maybe I don’t because you might tell me not to go through with it.”
No, I wouldn’t.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
Sometimes it’s like I can hear her voice. I know I can’t—I’m not imagining or hallucinating or believing her spirit follows methrough life. But I have conversations with her—out loud for me, her responses kept in my head.
It makes me feel close to her again.
“Odin told me I shouldn’t be the Suitor, but it’s not like he can talk,” I say to my reflection. “At least I’m guaranteed not to be sent home the first week.”
In my head, Mom laughs.
“Dad was cool with the idea, because Dad is cool about everything, but the boys… They don’t think I should do it. They’ve never really had high expectations of me being in the public eye. And this is more public than I’ve ever been.”
Whose fault is that?
“Mine, I know,” I admit. “But it would be nice sometimes… It doesn’t matter.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I haven’t heard from Spencer. I don’t know what I expected but—”
Don’t give up on Spencer.
“I’m about to meet twenty-five men, one of whom may be the love of my life. Now isn’t the best time to think about Spencer.” I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. “This is going to work.”
Of course it will.
A knock sounds on the door, and Ria opens it before I can respond. “You ready?” she calls, the excitement evident in her voice.
I take a last long look at myself. “Let’s do this,” I say.
