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“Really? Let me look.” I wait until Suzie adds the hairclips, then walk over to the mirror in the bathroom.
A striking beauty stares back at me, her green-flecked eyes huge and mysterious in her flawless face. And it is flawless. The forehead scar from my crash—almost invisible these days anyway—is completely gone, and my skin is as smooth and poreless as glass. An hour of makeup, and I look like I’m scarcely wearing any—except that every feature appears as perfect as if it had been Photoshopped.
The hair is what gives the princess impression. Piled high on the crown of my head, it’s an artful arrangement of curls and waves, each strand so shiny and smooth I hardly recognize it as my own. Even the color—dark brown with hints of red—is richer and brighter next to the diamond clips, though it could just be the extra glossiness imparted by all those products.
Pam was right about the updo: it’s exactly what this dress needed. The lace gives the sleek mermaid dress an ethereal quality, yet it’s only in combination with the intricate hairstyle that it takes on that magical, fairy-like look that got my mom all teary-eyed.
As I stare at myself in the mirror, my throat constricts.
I’m getting married.
To Peter.
Today.
The wave of panic is as spontaneous as it is irrational. Sucking in a gasping breath, I shut the bathroom door and lean against it, forgetting all about the fragile lace. My heart is like a war drum in my chest, my breath coming in rapid, shallow pants.
I’m getting married. To Peter.
I don’t understand the source of my panic, but that doesn’t make it any less intense. I can feel icy sweat popping out on my forehead and dampening my armpits, and it’s all I can do to remain upright instead of sinking to the floor.
Peter and I are getting married.
“Sara?” Mom knocks on the door, sounding worried. “Are you okay, darling?”
Am I? I should be okay. I should be over the moon, in fact. I’m marrying the man I love, one who’s gone to incredible lengths to show me that he loves me… to make me happy despite our inauspicious start.
Is that the issue? Is some part of me still unable to get past what Peter has done?
The flawless face in the mirror holds no answers, so I take a couple of deep breaths and steady my voice. “I’m fine, Mom. Just got a bit of an upset stomach.”
“Oh, you poor darling. Do you have any Pepto-Bismol in the house?”
“No, but I’m fine. Just give me a second.” I take a few more deep breaths, and when my heart is no longer jackrabbiting in my chest, I wet a towel and rub under my arms. I then reapply anti-perspirant and pat at the top of my hairline with a tissue, taking care not to smear my makeup.
When the mirror confirms that there are no traces left of my impromptu panic attack, I paste a smile on my lips and step out, assuring Mom yet again that I’m fine.
We return to the living room, which is now startlingly empty.
“They all left,” Mom says, smiling at my look of surprise. “While you were in the bathroom.”
“Oh.” I look at the clock and am shocked to see that it’s already two in the afternoon.
No wonder Peter wanted to make sure I ate a hearty breakfast.
“The ceremony starts at four, but Peter said the photographer is coming at three for family pictures,” Mom says. “So we should head over there. Your dad is already on his way.”
“Right, okay.” I curl my hand into a fist to hide the slight tremor in my fingers. My throat still feels too tight, and the thought of it all—the pictures, the ceremony, everyone staring and gossiping—is unbearable, completely overwhelming.
“Mom…” I press my hand to my stomach, which is now genuinely unsettled. “You know, I think I do need some medicine. There’s a pharmacy a block away, so I’ll just—”
“What? No, don’t be crazy.” Mom all but pushes me toward the couch. “You can’t go anywhere dressed like this. Sit here, relax, and I’ll be right back, okay?”
“No, Mom, that’s fine. I’ll just slip out of the dress and—”
“Sit.” Mom’s tone brooks no disagreement. “I may be old, but I can walk a block. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and you just sit and rest, okay? Maybe eat something, too—you might have low blood sugar.”
That’s actually a good point. As soon as Mom leaves, I go to the kitchen and pop a few leftovers into the microwave. I remember this from my first wedding: being too busy to eat and feeling faint. This time, there’s much less to worry about, thanks to Peter overseeing everything, so I actually have a few minutes to grab a bite.
The photographer can wait.
The doorbell rings just as I’m taking the pasta out of the microwave.
