“I’m Danica Montrose.” I shake her hand. “I have a ten o’clock appointment. This is Troy.”
She looks from me to Troy, then back again. “Is this your entire party, or are you waiting for others?”
“This is everybody.” I didn’t invite my mom. I thought about it, but I don’t like how quickly she took Granddad’s side with the engagement. And Leah was supposed to come, but one of her students needed her. If this were a real wedding and I cared about any of it, I’d have rescheduled so Leah could be here. But as it is, none of this matters. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
Troy, hired to guard me, will be enough.
“All right, then, I’ll be helping you find your dream gown today.” Cherry gestures that we should follow her. “We have a room set up for you. Here’s a place for your fiancé to sit while you try on gowns.”
Neither Troy nor I correct her on her assumption that he’s my fiancé. I wonder what that says about us, if anything.
The room is fairly private and intimate. It lacks a door, but the dressing room itself has a door wide enough for a giant hoop skirt. Chatter from other brides and their parties reaches my ears, but it’s faint.
A low, circular dais rests in front of a semi-circle of mirrors. When standing there, I’ll be able to see myself from every angle.
Cherry points to two long racks of dresses parked near the dais. “I recommend trying on a gown in each style, even if you think you don’t like it. It’s shocking how often a bride’s feelings change when she’s actively wearing a gown. Once we narrow down some styles, I’ll bring in several different choices for each style. I hope you had an energy-rich breakfast, because this will be a workout.”
Great. I exchange a look with Troy and see him quietly smiling.
Cherry helps me into gown after gown after gown. I know they’re different, but they all feel the same to me. Over-the-top symbols of happiness, loyalty, commitment. This feels so incredibly fake.
After Cherry puts me into the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen in my life, we go out to the dais where I’m supposed to twirl and show off.
“There, isn’t this a grand one?” Cherry tuts. “Fit for a princess.”
This isn’t a grand dress. I don’t like any of these, they don’t feel right. I widen my eyes at Troy.
He frowns. “Can you give us a few minutes, Cherry?”
“Of course,” she trills. “I’ll be back with some more gowns. I think we’re really narrowing things down.”
But even I can see the panic on her face. I haven’t been enthusiastic about a single dress.
With an impassive face, Troy watches her leave. He turns back to me. “Dani. Talk to me.”
“Well, obviously this one isn’t my style.” I pluck at the skirt, which looks more like a three-year-old’s idealized drawing of a dress.
He strides forward to stand close to the dais. I step toward the ledge. The level of the dais still doesn’t put me anywhere near his height. I still have to look up to see his face.
He touches my cheek. “You know what I’m asking. Tell me what you’re feeling right now. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I stare into his dark eyes. His strong jaw looks utterly touchable, scratchy with stubble. I want to smooth the permanent scowl lines between his eyebrows.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper. “I’m falling apart, I’m a mess. The Danica of three months ago wouldn’t have entertained the idea of an arranged marriage. Probably not even to save my family. I would’ve run and flipped everyone off while I was at it. But Granddad had a heart attack, I nearly lost my best friend, Patrick died, the Vorsongs stalked my teen cousin…am I forgetting anything? Oh yeah, my inconvenient panic attacks.”
Concern flares in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to ask about those, but you don’t have to answer.”
My guard goes up, but I nod. He didn’t believe my lie about Elias’s murder video any more than I believed it. “Go ahead. Ask.”
“Do you have a condition or something? Like, do you have meds I could get for you next time, or is there something specific I should do, anyone I should call?”
“Hopefully there won’t be a next time.” I square my shoulders. “The panic attacks are new. There’s no diagnosis. They’re probably happening because of all the other shit piling up in the trash fire of my life. I just wish I had some control.”
“One decision. One crisis at a time.” His voice is gruff as his fathomless eyes drink me in. “You’re doing everything you can, Dani, and you’re kicking ass. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
“Even when I can’t breathe, even when my heart feels like it’s escaping my chest?”
He places his hand above the low neckline of the gown, covering my heart. His palm is hot against my bare skin. “Even then.”
