Little Do We Know(5)

I sat on the cold stone with my legs folded and let my head fall into my hands. I rocked back and forth, sobbing and shaking and gasping for breath, not even trying to control myself.

I was furious at my dad, but I was even more furious with myself.

Because Emory was right.

She was right about everything.





I rubbed my eyes as I padded down the hall.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Mom was standing at the stove wearing black yoga pants and a bright orange tank top. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and a few dark strands had come loose, framing her face. She was quietly humming like she always did when she cooked.

The coffee in the pot was cold, left over from the day before, so I dumped it out in the sink and made a fresh one. While I waited, I rested my head on the counter and closed my eyes. “Why are you so chipper this morning?”

“I’ve been up for hours.” She pointed toward the dining room using her spatula. “I’ve been productive.”

I looked up. The table was covered with pages ripped from bridal magazines. “That’s one word for it,” I said as I walked over to get a closer look.

She’d carefully organized all the bridal gowns into neat piles: Strapless dresses in one stack. Full-length ball gowns in another. Short, more playful dresses next to sleek, elegant sheaths. There was a smaller pile of colorful gowns.

She came up behind me and rested her chin on my shoulder, studying her work. “Am I going overboard? Because you can tell me if I’m going overboard.”

“You’re going overboard.”

“I know,” she said, sighing as she reached out and picked up a photo of a much younger woman in a sequined gown that made her look like she’d just stepped straight out of an animated movie. “I want to do it right this time, but…maybe I’m too old for this princess stuff?”

Over the last few months, I’d learned more about bridal gowns than I’d ever wanted to. I could identify raw silk from organza, a mermaid silhouette from a ball gown, and a sweetheart neckline from a bateau. I could tell the difference between a chapel-and a cathedral-length train, and a dropped waist from an empire.

I reached into the pile of straight-lined sheaths and chose a simple-looking one with a scoop neckline and none of the bling.

“I like this one,” I said.

“Something older.”

“Something elegant.” I handed it to Mom. “You’ll still look like a princess.”

She slid her arm around me as she studied the picture. “I’m not sure I can pull off strapless.” She pointed at her chest. “I don’t have the boobs to hold up a dress like that now that I’ve lost all the weight.”

Mom used to own a catering company, but when Dad left three years ago, she stopped cooking, then she practically stopped eating, and eventually, she stopped getting out of bed almost entirely. Within six months, she’d lost forty pounds and all her clients. Then one day she cleaned out her catering van, found a therapist, and joined a gym. And that’s where she met David the Douchebag.

“Maybe this?” She reached out and picked up a similar-looking dress with thin straps. “It looks comfortable. I could actually dance in this one.”

“I like it.” I took it from her hand and set it in the yes pile as she popped a forkful of omelet into her mouth.

When we were done rummaging through the stacks we had six styles we agreed would look best on her. She fanned the pages in front of her and drummed her hands on the table. “God, this is so fun! I feel like a teenager.”

“Teenagers don’t usually get married, Mom.”

“Fine. I feel like a late-twentysomething who’s young and in love, with her whole life ahead of her.”

“Which makes me?”

She thought about it for a second. “My younger but much wiser sister.”

The younger sister part was true enough. I wasn’t so sure about the wiser part, especially in light of recent events.

Then she jumped up and kissed my forehead. “I’m going to take a quick shower. You’ve got dishes,” she said as she skipped off down the hall. “Our first bridal salon appointment is in an hour, so make it snappy.”

I took a sip of my coffee and sat there a little longer, studying the dresses again. Careful not to ruin our new piles, I pulled out one that had caught my eye a few times from the stack of rejects. I lifted it in the air and gave it a closer look.

It was a simple A-line with a low scoop neck and tight cap sleeves. The model’s hair looked like mine: long, straight, and dark brown. Her eyes were bright blue, too, and we both had high cheekbones. She seemed taller than me, but that might have just been the three-inch strappy sandals on her feet. She was prettier than me for sure, but I could kind of see myself in her. I could definitely see myself in that dress. No time soon or anything—at least not until college was over and my acting career was well established—but someday.

As I ran my fingertip over the curves and seams, my phone buzzed.

Luke: Hey what are you doing?

Emory: Wedding planning with my mom

Luke: Fun.

I typed the word hardly, but then I deleted it and instead typed a simple, Yep.

I had to do everything I could to make Mom’s wedding perfect. Nothing else mattered.

Besides, it was all almost over. Graduation was three months away. The wedding would be over in five. In six months, she’d be moving into D-bag’s loft in the city and I’d be living in the dorms.