“I’ll put this on,” I tell him, unzipping the bag. “We should head down soon.”
“No.”
The word is like a sudden fence post driven into the middle of the room. I pause, my hand still hooked on the hanger.
“Wear the cream one,” Ezra says. “That’s what we agreed.”
I glance back, a small, confused laugh bubbling up. “Did we? I thought this was fine. I really like the way this one fits.”
He exhales, as if I’m a difficult child. “I said wear the cream one, Piper.”
I laugh again because that’s my instinct. When the tension rises too much, I try to joke my way out of the burning building. “Okay, but it’s not like I’m wearing a neon tracksuit. This is a nice dress.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping an octave. “You’re about to become my wife. You need to look and act the part.”
Embarrassment flares in my chest. I feel stupid for not anticipating this. For thinking my opinion on my own body mattered more than the “brand” we’re building.
“I just thought—”
“I know what you thought,” he interrupts, his smile returning, but not reaching his eyes. “And I’m telling you what I want.”
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me, but I swallow it down. I nod because it’s easier to change a dress than to start a war ten hours before the “I dos.” This isn’t the hill to die on.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
I trade the dress for the cream one, and retreat into the bathroom like a wounded animal. Leaning against the cool wood of the door, I press my palms flat against it.
Don’t cry. Do not cry.
My eyes burn. I blink rapidly, staring at the ceiling until the feeling retreats.
Not now, Piper. Not tonight.
When I step back out, Ezra’s expression has softened. The storm has passed because he got his way.
“There,” he says, beaming. “That’s perfect.” He smooths his hands down my arms, claiming the territory. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. I want to believe him.
He kisses my cheek, then my lips. “See? Much better.”
The praise settles over me, a temporary bandage on a deepening wound. I let it. I have to let it.
I walk up to the mirror to check my earrings and accidentally catch my reflection. I don’t stare for long. Lately, I’ve noticed I tend to avoid my own reflection whenever I can.
Still, in that brief flash, I catalogue the glitches:
The dress fits, but it’s not mine.
My smile is a lie.
I look like I’m playing a part I never auditioned for.
“You ready?” Ezra asks.
The sound of his voice snaps the tether.
“Yes,” I say, turning away from the glass. “I’m ready.”
