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“Well?” Ulyana prods. She’s hovering near my elbow, watching in that expectant way of hers. “Go on. Examine them.”
“Yes,” Arsen agrees. “Show a little excitement.” He’s sprawled on the velour sofa in the corner, his legs stretched out across the floor. He’s so big that his arms dangle over the back, dwarfing the furniture.
My eye twitches. Holding back a curt response, I study the dresses again. It’s impossible to feel excitement. I’m barely keeping it together, my pulse throbbing quicker as I stand in front of the gowns. I don’t want Arsen to see a hint of fear though. Showing him any sort of weakness would be a mistake …. I don’t think my pride can survive anymore damage.
Lifting my hand reluctantly, I brush my fingertips over the closest wedding dress. The silky fabric is cold to the touch and almost slippery. I think that if I put it on, it’ll just slide straight off, like it’s rejecting me. I shouldn’t be getting married. Even if it’s fake. This is wrong. This is all wrong.
Walking along the line, I stroke the gowns with my arm outstretched, keeping a distance between them and me. As a child, I would brush the fences on my walk to school. My hands would be filthy by the end, something that my teachers always chided me for. It was compulsive, a need to feel how the metal or wood thudded off my fingertips. A way to ground myself.
This is different. Here, I’m practically forcing myself to touch what’s in front of me.
I count fifty dresses before I reach the end of the room. How can I pick one? They all look the same to me. Turning on my heel, I notice the four people in the room observing me. Two of them are women—in charge of arranging the dresses for this event. They look at their feet when they see I’ve noticed them, but Arsen and Ulyana keep scrutinizing me. Neither offers any warmth. Picking a wedding dress should be a joyous moment, but this is abject torture.
The next dress I examine is rough—papery and thick. The sensation sends me down a spiral of memories. It feels just like the note I found the other night in my jean jacket. I can’t stop the names spinning through my head. I don’t just see my handwriting as I recall them. I remember the thrill as I wrote them down … the happiness … the potential.
The fallout afterward as my world crumbled into tiny chunks.
Pressing a hand to my guts, I let out a whimper. My grip tightens on the dress. I’m using it to hold me up, hoping I can pretend I’m checking it closely out of interest, not because I’ll collapse otherwise.
Tracing the high collar, I lick my dry lips. “This one is … pretty.” I swallow down a wash of bile. “In fact, I could wear this one. Yes, um, it’s perfect.”
“Ma’am, allow me to help you try it on,” one of the staff suggests.
All the blood drains from my face. Oh God, no, I can’t wear it. I shoot a side-eye at Arsen. Imagining him seeing me in the wedding dress is enough to make the moisture vanish from my mouth. Everything about this situation is all wrong.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.
I can’t ...
“Everyone, out. Now,” Ulyana says loudly. It’s a direct command, as firm as a steel bar. Lifting my head, I watch in amazement as the staff scurries out the door. They know better than to question their boss.
Arsen rocks forward, staring at me curiously. “What’s happening?”
“You as well,” Ulyana hisses. “Go.”
He glares at her like he’s going to argue. Instead, he rises fluidly, sending me a final glance over his shoulder before exiting the room. Ulyana closes the door behind him then hurries to my side.
“I’m okay,” I tell her.
“No you’re not. Sit.” Clutching my shoulders, she guides me away from the dresses. I let her do it because I’m too exhausted to argue. The instant I sit, my hands begin to tremble. My legs follow after. “Look at you; you’re a wreck.”
“It’s nothing.”
Reaching into the pocket of her gray dress, she hands me a small gold wrapper. “Eat. The sugar will help.”
Opening the tiny package, I see it’s a hard caramel candy. My mother used to give me these when I was little. Sucking on the candy refuels my energy. “Thank you.”
Ulyana settles beside me on the sofa. She folds her hands neatly on her knees. “You’re troubled about the marriage.”
My chuckle is stale and mirthless. “Was it that obvious?”
“You must remember that this is all to defeat Yevgeniy.”
“Arsen said that, yes.”
“It’s the truth.”
