30. Briar
Briar
T he haughty seamstress raises an eyebrow at me. “We do know what we’re doing.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Our living room has been transformed; the coffee table pushed aside to make way for the platform that I’m standing on as several women work around me. “I just thought it would be measurements only.”
The white lace feels too tight against my stomach. I suck in a breath as it’s pulled tighter. “I need to be able to breathe.”
The seamstress lets out a disapproving tut before moving on to my hips. “Your fiancé has very specific tastes.”
He chose my wedding dress. Without speaking to me.
“There.” The woman steps back, pointing at the mirror. “You make a beautiful bride.”
The others murmur in agreement. This dress is nothing like I would have chosen for myself. It’s too tight, the lace clinging to me all the way down my body, from the low-cut corset until it flares out close to my ankles in a long, ostentatious train that almost stretches the full length of the room.
I always thought I would make my own wedding dress. Something out of a fairytale. Pretty, with long sleeves that tapered on the ends, and a swishing, flowing skirt. Something that made me feel like a princess, instead of a prisoner.
But then, this is not the wedding I dreamt about.
I drop my gaze from the woman in the mirror.
I’ve heard from Kai every day. Small, sweet messages. River has left voicemails on my phone, his coaxing words almost enough to make me smile.
But I’ve heard nothing from Jenson, and his silence speaks loudest.
I jolt as they place the ivory veil on my head. It drops down to nearly my toes, heavy and thick. An unpleasant, musty scent fills my nose.
“It belonged to your mother-in-law.” The words barely make it through the fabric. “She insisted that it should be given to you.”
Oh, God. Doreen.
My breathing feels louder as the noise of the room is cut off. Harsh, and a little panicky. I start to feel a little light-headed. “Could you take it off, please?”
They’re not listening. They don’t see me at all, only here to carry out whatever instructions Philip has clearly given them. “I can’t- take it off—,”
I can’t breathe. My hands reach up to wrestle with the veil, trying to pull it off. My words grow louder, more pleading, as I tangle with the material.
Take it off.
Take it off.
Take it off.
There’s a tearing sound as blissful, cool air fills my lungs. My body folds, but I can’t even bend over in this gown.
Horrified murmurs burst around me, and I glance down. Dread curdles my stomach at the large tear in the veil. “I didn’t mean – I couldn’t breathe.”
I still can’t.
Silence. The quiet curse from the seamstress echoes my own thoughts. “Mrs Fitzherbert will not be happy about this.”
It almost sounds like a warning.
Sighing, I glance at myself in the mirror again. “No, she won’t.”
***
“I understand there was an issue at the fitting.”
My father studies me as I push the chicken around my plate. I can feel his disapproval from the other end of the long table. “You’ll need to call to apologize.”
“I already have.” Doreen Fitzherbert is not happy with me. But the guilt I feel is genuine. “It was an accident. The seamstress is repairing it.”
As if it never happened.
“Good.”
I set my fork down. “I know you want me to be comfortable, Papa. But does it matter to you if I’m happy?”
My father doesn’t respond for a moment. “Happiness is subjective, Briar. Safety, and security – that is what truly matters. I struggle to see how anyone can find happiness without it. If someone does not feel safe, how can they possibly be happy? Philip is offering both of those things. Happiness will follow.”
I consider his words as he continues eating. My father is referring to materialistic things. That’s how he views it – as he has always viewed it. The house around me has always mattered more in his mind than what was inside it.
Not everyone sees safety in the same way.
His last sentence echoes in my head.
If someone does not feel safe, how can they possibly be happy?
I glance at the clock. It’s still early evening.
And it’s Wednesday.
My lips tilt up at the edges. I have an invitation this evening. From a small, possibly psychotic but rather sweet bartender who might get me horrifically drunk.
Maybe I haven’t heard from Jenson.
But that doesn’t have to stop me visiting Mystic.