Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
It still made me a little skittish, being kept in the dark about my own wedding.
But today, as I look at myself in the mirror, I know.
I know I should’ve trusted my sister and my fiancé.
There’s zero doubt left that I can always trust the people I love.
I gave Ros a sketch from memories half a lifetime ago. Then I let her drag me to a dress shop in Raleigh to get my measurements taken, and back again for a basic fitting for a simple sheath dress.
At first, I thought the sheath was the base of the dress. But it turns out it was just a body mold to give the dressmaker what she really needed to work with while still keeping the actual design a secret.
The odd secrecy, everyone working overtime to make something to surprise me, adds a little thrill to everything.
But it’s nothing versus the sweet rush that rolls through me as I stare at my reflection while Ros zips me into the dress.
I don’t look good.
I look enchanting.
Heck, I feel enchanted.
The dress is sleeveless and strapless with a bodice scalloped in the shape of a fluted butterfly’s wing on a diagonal down to a high, empress-cut waist.
Delicate lines like the stripes of fragile wings shimmer in a soft hematite glitter against the white bodice. The rest of the dress is layered damask sheeting down to the floor in misty ripples.
Sometimes white. Sometimes a sheer, soft grey depending on how the layers merge. They always catch the light with a shine like the dust falling from a butterfly’s wings.
The scalloped hem moves against the floor like waves as I turn—no, more like a butterfly’s wings.
I smile until my face hurts.
Behind me, the dipping backline trails out into a train of the same damask.
When I step forward, it’s magic.
The lightest brush of air lifts it up.
I try not to squeal.
They’ve given me wings.
They made me the butterfly.
My throat chokes up as I turn to hug my sister tight.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “Thank you. Thank you so much for doing this, Ros. Thank you for being here.”
“I mean, I had to, didn’t I? Ethan’s not around to stuff you into a princess costume made from paper bags.” We laugh because it’s no exaggeration.
My dumb brother totally would’ve given me a grown-up version of my favorite Halloween costume as a wedding present.
God, I miss him today.
Ros’ voice thickens as she hugs me back. “Besides, you’re always there for me. It was definitely my turn. How could I let my big sister’s big day be anything but magical?”
“Oh—crap.” I let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t make me cry and ruin my eyeliner.”
“Oh, hush. You both know I’ll fix it,” a warm voice says at our backs.
We pull apart as Mom steps into the small covered pavilion tent set up for the bridal party in the large clearing on Still Lake’s shore.
My mother looks radiant today.
No other word works.
Yes, she’s still thin, baring the signs of her recovery in the shadows of her cheeks and the bones poking through the shoulders of her dress... but she’s alive.
She’s up and about, bursting with excitement to be my matron of honor in a lovely silk waterfall dress the color of a blue morpho butterfly’s wings. A perfect match for Ros’ bridesmaid dress.
“Mom,” I whisper.
That choked feeling returns for a different reason now.
Not so long ago, I didn’t think she’d live to see me at the altar.
I didn’t think either of them would, honestly.
Yet here they are, right by my side, smiling with so much warmth and love in their eyes.
“Now, baby,” my mother chides playfully, tucking a lock of my hair back into the wild tumble of twists and curls my sister made, strewn with flowers in pink and blue and white. “Today wasn’t made for tears. I’ve waited for you and Grant to find each other your entire lives. Go out there and make me the happiest mother alive.”
Ros snorts. “Don’t let Mrs. Faircross hear you say that. She’s already mad she’s not in the ceremony when Mr. Faircross is.”
“Well, someone had to give me away,” I say. “And Jensen Faircross always treated us like family, so...”
There’s a chill moment then.
A silent awareness.
The ugly knowledge of who should be here to give me away in another life.
But we’re not talking about him on today of all days.
True to form, no one’s seen Montero Arrendell since he gave his brief police statement on Aleksander.
No evidence linking him to high crimes, of course.
There never is.
I tell myself I don’t care.
It shouldn’t matter.
Today, at least, it doesn’t.
All the little questions that still eat at me are just annoying mosquito bites instead of coyote teeth stripping my skin off my bones.
He’s not our father, anyway. Not in any real sense of the word.
He’s just bad history meant to be left behind.