Page 27 of Meant to be Mine

“Oh, Kensey.” My mother had one hand over her heart. “That is stunning.”

“I know.”

“Well, let’s get you dressed,” she said. “Your chariot arrives at four?”

“Yep.”

I carried the dress upstairs with the shoe box tucked under my arm. My mother followed. We did my hair and makeup and then it was time to put it on. I didn’t know how much the dress cost, but I was guessing it was probably five figures at least.

My mother fanned her face with one hand. Tears filled her eyes.

“Mom. Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she said, which was a lie. She waved her good hand at me. “Turn around.”

I did so.

“It fits you perfectly.”

“Annika is an artist.”

“She truly is.”

I stood in front of the mirror and looked at my reflection. I wasn’t a thin woman. I had never really minded. After spending so much time with the models, I had become very aware of my curves. But seeing the dress on my body, I felt beautiful. The curves were accentuated. Marilyn Monroe, eat your heart out.

“John!” Mom shouted. “Get up here!”

I heard his footsteps and then he was coming through the door. My dad wasn’t an emotional guy, but when he saw me, he paused. His hand went to his chest.

“Oh, Kens,” he whispered. “You’re so pretty.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I thought you looked beautiful for prom, but my goodness.”

We were not talking about the disaster that was prom.

“That dress is going to sell out once they see it on you,” Mom said.

“Free advertisement,” I said with a nervous laugh.

“That’s a man who pays attention.”

“He’s a good friend.”

“He’s a very good friend who commissioned a custom gown for you.”

“It’s not commissioned. It’s from the collection. It was already made. He just asked Annika to find something that would work and fit it properly.” I opened the shoe box. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a pair of heels so beautiful I actually held my breath for a second. Strappy, delicate, and so sparkly. Annika had thought of everything. “Oh my.”

“Put them on,” Mom said.

I sat on the edge of the chair by my desk and slipped them on. When I stood up and looked in the mirror again, I understood what Cinderella felt like. Not the magic part, not the prince part, just the feeling of looking like a princess.

“You look like a movie star,” my mother said quietly.

“Don’t make me cry. I don’t want raccoon eyes.”

She laughed and patted the bed beside her. “Come sit.”