That only brings more tears to my eyes, my nose growing stuffy.
I can’t stop it, so for a second I just give in to the sensation, my body trembling.
When Lennie finds me, I’ve got my hands clasped over my nose, making it seem like I’m praying. But it doesn’t do enough to hide the tears.
Lennie gently touches my arm. She’s got on a silk robe, not at all concerned about chasing after me in pajamas. It makes me worry that others saw me struggling.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, conveying my misery. I just ruined her fucking dress fitting.
“No, I’m sorry,” Lennie says softly.
That only makes me cry harder. Why is she sorry?
“What’s wrong, Isolde?”
My breath is shaky, my nose running.
“Did something happen?”
I choke back a sob, trying to force myself to stop crying.
“Isolde.” Lennie’s sweetness touches my soul.
“The dress. . .”
“You don’t like it?”
The next sob mixes with a laugh. Then there’s another gush of tears. “It reminds me of my sister.”
I press my hand tighter against my mouth.
Lennie stands there in her silk robe. The breeze makes one of her curls dance around her face. The brutal scar gives her an extra serious look on her face.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I say over and over again.
Lennie is short and has brown curls. She looks nothing like my sister. But when she walked out wearing that dress, it hit me like a ton of bricks. The gown was exactly what my sister would have worn on her wedding day.
And I’d have probably complained to her about wearing a dress if she’d made me her maid of honor. We’d have foughtover the idea of me wearing a tux or something. She’d complain, but then I’d remind her about all the women before us who had done everything to ensure I could wear trousers.
It’s not Lennie’s fault, this freakout of mine. But like with everything, she handles it with grace, wrapping me in a hug. I stop breathing, thinking that might help, and then take deep breaths when I decide I actually do need some air in my lungs.
“Do you want me to wear it?” she asks. “To honor your sister?”
I laugh, wiping my eyes. “Oh, God, no, I don’t think you actually like it that much.”
Granted it’s a step in the right direction after that disaster of a tulle gown.
“But I’d wear it,” she insists.
I meet her eye for the first time. “No. It’s not your dress, Len.”
It’s not Sammie’s either.
Lennie’s shoulders soften, but the concern doesn’t leave her face. “Do you want me to call Tris?”
I pretend not to know what she means.
She merely raises her brow, daring me to correct her.
