I drag my gaze back to the mirror. My face is pale under the makeup now, eyes glassy, chest heaving. I look less like a bride and more like someone about to bolt.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper to the woman in the glass.
The admission is slipping off a mask.
My heart stutters, then surges, pounding, trying to burst out of my chest and drag me somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Lights blur in the mirror as fresh tears fill my eyes. They spill over, tracking down my cheeks in warm streaks, carving through the flawless foundation. The makeup artist would have a stroke if she saw.
Good.
Because I am not fine. I am not perfect. I am not ready.
Another muffled knock hits the door.
“Faith?” That’s my father this time. “What’s going on? It’s time. People are waiting.”
My spine locks. For a moment, habit almost wins. I nearly smooth my dress, swipe my cheeks, paste on a smile, and say, “Coming, Daddy.”
But the idea of opening that door makes my vision tilt again. I can’t picture myself taking those steps down the aisle without my legs giving out.
I picture my father’s face if I tell him I can’t. The disappointment tightening his jaw. The way he’d step in close, lower his voice, and murmur, “Don’t be ridiculous, Faith. It’snerves. We’ve put too much into this for you to have one of your moods now.”
We.
As if this is his wedding as much as mine.
The panic spikes, sudden and blinding. My fingertips go numb. The room shrinks to the door, the mirror, the way my pulse throbs in my neck.
“Faith?” He knocks again, harder. “Open this door.”
I can’t.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clutching the locket.
“Gran,” I hiss through my teeth, half prayer, half plea. “I don’t know what to do.”
And then, in the middle of the noise in my head, a small and clear thought cuts through.
You do know, sugar. You’ve always known. You’re just scared.
I don’t know if it’s memory or imagination or just my subconscious finally clawing its way to the surface, but it’s enough.
My body moves before my brain catches up.
One step back. My heels sink into the plush carpet, the satin of my skirt whispering against my legs. Another step, toward the side of the room where a narrow door leads to the service hallway. The one the staff has been using to bring in trays without bumping into the bridesmaids.
My father knocks again, the sound sharper, angrier. The doorknob rattles. “Faith, open this door right now.”
No.
I take another step, my knees shaking so hard I’m amazed I stay upright. My fingers close around the knob of the side door. It turns easily, unguarded, forgotten.
I glance back once, just long enough to see the room I’m supposed to be married in. The vanity, the velvet bench, thespray of roses that don’t have a scent strong enough to cover the reek of my fear. The dress in the mirror is beautiful, but it’s on the wrong girl. The girl who slings her denim jacket over her shoulders, grateful to feel her phone in her pocket. Her lifeline.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure who I’m apologizing to.
My dad. Evan. The guests outside. Myself.
