I'm sewn to you.
But today, the day of my wedding, I have one regret: forbidding my future husband to see me this morning. As if I were some sort of 19th century virgin.
He hasn’t seen my dress, which I designed with Simone earlier this year. I spend my days with Simone soaking up all her guidance and expertise atSanterre, and my spare timeoverseeingGio as he tailors my personal designs for my own line, which I hope to launch next fall. Slowly but surely, I’m making progress toward my goals and improving my craft. Even my hand sewing has improved, though my lessons with Gio sometimes end with more fabric on the floor than what we started with.
I knew exactly what I wanted my dress to look like when I sloppily sketched it at age twelve, and my access toSanterre’sprofessional seamstresses brought the design to life. They were so meticulous, perfecting every last detail on my heirloom worthy, fit-and-flare Chantilly lace dress. The hand stitched underlay adds a classic scalloped hem, and the cathedral-length tulle veil is lined to match the off-the-shoulders long sleeve topper. I’ve always wanted a romantic silhouette like this, one that would stand the test of time. And I feel exquisite.
But I still miss Gio.
I sense eyes on my back, so I turn toward my bridesmaids, who are standing on the other side of the room. Esme’s holding her camera (“I just want to take, like, a few pictures getting ready. I promise I’ll let your mom do her job.”), Peyton’s holding a bridal essentials kit (“I put a baker’s dozen of lipglosses in here.”), and Grace is looking at me with a huge smile on her face (“I can only keep your brother out of this room for so long. Both you and I are in it.”).
“Damn. You three look too good. I should’ve dressed you uglier. Is it too late to mess up your hair?” I half-heartedly joke, garnering a few chuckles from my girls.
“Listen, you’re the bride. If you want me to ‘spill’ wine on my dress, I’ll do it,” Peyton offers, by far the most ride-or-die girl I know.
Esme snaps a picture of me before looking in the viewfinder and frowning. “You look like someone just told you floral patterns are only for spring. No being sad on your wedding day, Tess,” she chides, before exchanging a lookwith Grace.
I sit up straighter and glance in the mirror. “What is it? Do I look okay?”
Peyton jumps in immediately. “No, you look perfect.”
Grace gives me a small smile, walking closer to my corner of the room. “It’s just… Well, we hope you don’t mind.” She pauses, nervously tapping her foot on the floor. “We called your fiancé, and he’s on his way. You look like you need him. Any sadder and people will think you were left at the altar.”
I break into a beaming smile. “I love you all so much. Thank you.”
Their smiles match mine, as we wait for?—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
We all startle at the knocking.
“Tèssa?! Are you in there? Grace said you needed me. What happened?! I knew we never should’ve separated. I knew something like this would happen.” The sound of loud footsteps, walking back and forth, booms through the locked door. “Who did something? You can’t trust Italians,Tèssa. Or Americans. I’m always saying that. Don’t trustanyone, unless they’re a Vatican nun, is what I’ve always said.”
His accent sounds so thick, probably unintelligible to my bridesmaids. The last time it was this strong was when I asked if his parents had Italian dressing for my salad(“There’s no such thing as Italian dressing!”).
I turn to Grace with wide eyes. “Oh my God, G—did younot tellGiowhyhe was being summoned?”
“I didn’t think anything of it!” she says frantically. “I just said, ‘Tessa needs you’ and he said ‘on my way!’”
“Dear God,” I say flatly. “We are two minutes away from him calling la polizia.”
Esme rolls her eyes. “Not this again…”
Peyton bites her lip, trying to stifle a laugh, which proves to be a fruitless effort. She nearly chokes on air as she doubles over, cracking up.
“TÈSSA!”
I’m slow-moving in my wedding dress, so Grace gets the door to a heaving Gio. He must’ve sprinted here from the garden, because a bead of sweat drips down his brow. Upon seeing my future husband, my jaw drops.Damn. He looks so sexy in his navy morning suit. The blue damask double-breasted waistcoat only brightens his blue eyes. Smiling at the sight of the fig cufflinks I bought him, I feel calmer already.
Gio, however, looks anything but calm. “What happened?”
Holding an EpiPen in his left hand, he walks toward me, scanning my body for… Well, I’m not sure. Broken limb? Ripped hem? Based on the frantic look in his eyes, it could be either.
Noting that my extremities and gown are both intact, he trains his scrutinizing gaze on my bridesmaids. “Was it one ofyouwho did something to Tessa? Tell me. What’s wrong with her?”
“She’sfine.Shejust wanted to see her future husband for a second,” I tease, grabbing his hand. “Gio, look at me.”
He slowly sets the EpiPen on the vanity, then turns. The moment his eyes find me again, his entire expression gentles. His posture quickly follows, loosening, as if the adoration in my eyes is enough to steady his entire being.
