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We just accept what we can.
I mean, I delayed canceling it anyway in fear of what other people would say about Larson and me when in fact, it’s Larson who should be worrying about that. Not me. I’m the victim here. I’m the one who should receive sympathy.
As I fight through the feelings similar to a pre-panic attack, Mom approaches me at the dining table. “Honey, do you want me to bring your wedding dress to the tailor? Maybe we could sell it back to them.”
I shudder at the thought; my corset bodice dress with hundreds of hand-sewn Swarovski diamonds is just going to be let go? Just like that?
I want to say that I want to keep it, but Aunt Olive speaks, “Let her bring it to the store. She can use my car.”
The way she said it doesn’t exactly give me any room to argue. In fact, her fang-baring smile doesn’t make me want to argue, either.
So, despite the taste of bile rising to my tongue, I bring my sealed wedding gown to the backseat of Aunt Olive’sMini Cooper.
I take my time driving to the dress store. I want to spend as much time as I can with the wedding dress of my dreams. I only ever got to try it on twice—and I couldn’t even wear it to walk down the aisle.
Once again, I hold back my tears.
I pull up in front of the store and carry the dress that weighs at least a kilogram.
As I pull the glass doors open, I feel like throwing up with anxiety. But I don’t want to throw up on my beautiful dress—which won’t be mine for long now.
“Miss Estelle!” the receptionist welcomes me with a huge smile, which slowly fades as she sees the dress hanging on my arm. “Is there a problem with your dress?”
I wish.Perhaps a few loose Swarovski’s or a thread hanging somewhere is the problem. But no. It’s my ex-fiancé.
Where do I even begin?
I let out a wry chuckle. “Um, the dress is… fine. It’s perfect. But something came up. So, we’ve—we’ve decided to… cancel the wedding.”
That’s probably the hardest sentence I’ve ever had to utter.
The receptionist blinks at me in surprise and horror, but she manages to pull a sad smile; perhaps trained for situations like this. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Now, how can I help you? You know we can’t issue a refund for a custom dress, right?”
Of course, I know that much.
I answer, “Well, yes. So, I was thinking if maybe I could… sell it?”
“You want to sell your dress?”
No.But I say, “Y-yes.”
She asks me again, just in case I’m being emotional and impulsive. Or threatened by my cool, rich aunt, who I don’t want to piss off. “You want to sell us your customized $2,000 wedding dress?”
If she puts it that way, I may change my mind. “Yes, exactly. I have no use for it now.”
She nods with reluctance. “Well, how about you take a seat first? I’ll ask my manager about this.”
“Thank you,” I breathe as I sit myself down with the dress next to me.
I look around the peppermint-scented room, and the sight of white dresses and tiaras and veils and white heels all pierce my heart.
I can vividly recall when I first came here excitedly with Larson—how bright-eyed and blushing I was then. My life was just beginning to unfold before me.
I can remember wearing this exact dress, crying about how perfect it is for me.
And now, I’m back here: trying to sell my perfect dress.
After a few minutes, the receptionist returns to me. “Miss Estelle, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but this is averyexpensive custom-made dress. I’m afraid we can’t buy it.”
