Gracie gives my hand an encouraging squeeze. “Alright, Aria, open your eyes. Remember, we can take it off.”
I brace myself and look. The woman in the mirror isn’t a stranger. She’sme. Not transformed, revealed. Slender straps melt into a sweetheart neckline, lace and crystals catching the light like constellations. The gown traces my shape with confidence, then blooms into a dramatic, flowing flare.
“Gracie,” I whisper, awed. “You have a gift.”
She beams. “I’ll take that as a yes. It’s from next year’s collection.”
“I love it.”
I step out, my heart pounding. The silence is immediate. No gasps, no oohs or ahs.Nothing.Maybe they hate it. Perhaps they see a girl trying too hard to be something she’s not. I turn toward the screen, doubt flickering.
“A beautiful Italian bride should wear a traditional Italian veil.” My grandmother’s soft voice breaks through the silence, and I know.
“This is the dress,” my happy tears start flowing.
Forty-Eight
“I wanted to forget him for a night, but even when someone else touched me, it was his fury I felt burning through my skin.”–Aria Boschett.
Istand at the penthouse windows, the wedding invitation trembling in my hands. Boston city lights flicker below, barely registering while the envelope goes soft at the edges from how long I’ve been gripping it. Dragging my thumb along the seal like I can rub the truth into something kinder. If I hold it long enough, Aunt Cathy will change her mind.It’s the third time she’s returned my wedding invitation unopened.Sighing, I walk into the living area and drop onto the couch my focus on the invitation.
“I thought you were taking a nap,” Tasha says, biting into a green apple.
I flinch. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Neither can I.” She takes another bite of her apple, sitting next to me, and her eyes flick to the invitation. “Are you sure about this?”
I exhale. “You’re the one who insisted on a bachelorette party. That’s why we’re in Boston.”
“I’m not talking about the party.” She points at the unopened invitation. “I’m talking about your marriage. Is Cyan it for you?”
My grip tightens. “Tasha…”
“Because if he is, Ari...This is what you’re signing up for.”
“Being shunned,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” Her gaze stays on mine as she chomps away. “Ari… are you sure you can live with that?”
“Yes.” Her question lands harder than I expect. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “I have to make sure, Ari. I need to hear you say it when you’re not high off getting your brain screwed to oblivion… I’ve known you forever, and Cyan, well,” she points. “You, Aria Boschett, don’t pick men like Cyan.”
I snort. “Have you been talking to Aunt Cathy?” Tasha looks away, my chest goes tight. “You have.”
“Only after she sent your last RSVP back unopened,” Tasha admits, frustration flashing. “I wanted to help. I can see this is eating you alive.”
“What did she say?”
“She begged me to talk sense into you.” Tasha tosses the half-eaten apple onto the table. “And Ari… I hate it, but I kind of get where she’s coming from.”
I cut her off fast. “Maybe what I thought I wanted isn’t what I needed.” I flick the invite onto the table. “Cyan is who I’m with. He’s mine.” I hold her gaze. “So can we drop it?”
Tasha studies me. Picks back up her apple then she leans back, with a wry little smile tugging at her mouth. “Well, damn. That’s the surest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” She bumps my shoulder. “Good for you, putting me in my damn place and claiming your man.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. A lazy smile slips out. “I know, right! The man is perfection.”
“Okay, gross,” she grins.
