Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I wake the next day in my wedding dress.
I’m lying on my stomach, and before I even open my eyes, I become conscious of beads biting into my fingers. I adjust my legs and there’s a swish that sounds like dressing rooms, bridal risers. I scratch my side and my nails catch on lace.
I roll over, jerk upright. Take stock of myself. I’m on top of my bed, the fabric my only blanket. If someone were to walk in right now, they’d walk right out, leave me in this gown for the second time—because why am I in it? Why am I dressed for a wedding to no one?
The night comes back to me in slivers: my reflection in the mirror, trying not to see Brad’s face behind me, the face that kept me awake long before Morgan’s or Daphne’s ever did; my arms twisted around my back, grappling with the buttons before I gave up; my complexion so pale it was difficult to tell where the gown ended and my skin began.
Before that, though. What compelled me to step into the dress at all?
I return to the moment I got home last night, texting Nina one-handed as I struggled with my key in the lock. I warned her Jackson might approach her, might have questions, but shared the good news, too: my hair was not a match for the ones in Morgan’s hand. As I walked inside, willing her to respond, my phone was the only light leading me on. Then there was the glow of the open refrigerator as I reached for the orange juice, mixed it with my meds, and swallowed the bitter mouthful.
I stayed like that, in semidarkness, letting my phone point me to my bedroom, getting ready in the bathroom with only the night-light. I wasn’t taking any chances. I’d worked long after closing, making up for lost time, making myself so tired my eyes actually ached, and now that I was this close to my bed, I worried if I turned on the lights, my body might be yanked from the drowsiness that felt as powerful as a drug.
That’s why I didn’t think I’d need Mom’s sleeping pills. I assumed I’d slip between the sheets and drop into a dreamless sleep, as good as being blackout drunk.
But faces swarmed me again. Not Morgan’s or Daphne’s. Not Brad’s, either.
Edith’s. The fear beaming from her eyes when she clocked a cop’s suspicion of me.
Jackson’s. The curl of his lips teetering between smile and smirk.
And worst of all, Nina’s. The cool appraisal of her gaze. Her glances like paper cuts.
I heard her voice, too: I’m scared of what you would have done. Why would anyone want to be you? And it was those lines that had me launching out of bed, flicking on the lights, chasing all the faces away.
I retrieved Mom’s pills from the kitchen and gulped one down. Then I opened my closet for my favorite sweatshirt, an extra layer of comfort against the chill of Nina’s question, and saw my wedding dress instead.
It was still in front, free of its garment bag, from that day last week when I’d pulled it out to daydream about a second chance—for me and the dress. But as I looked at it last night, I didn’t see an aisle lined with candles, a man in a tux, or feel the phantom grip of a hand on my waist. I saw only how gorgeous the gown was. Felt only what a shame it was I might never wear it.
I stroked the lace and remembered what the dress had done for me that first time I put it on at Just Say Yes. Even though Brad had been distant for weeks, even though I’d felt him prying my fingers off his, one by one, the dress made me feel buoyant—like if Brad did set me adrift, I would float instead of sink. At the same time, it made me see myself as someone worth being tethered to, and standing in my room last night, the echoes of Nina’s words still in my head, I became desperate for that feeling again. I wanted to look at my reflection and see someone I loved.
The problem was: it didn’t work. The gown looked like a costume. I stood at the mirror and saw only an actor.
I don’t remember lying down or closing my eyes. But Mom’s pill must have knocked me out before I had a chance to remove the dress, because now I’m here on my bed, blinking against daylight, which bounces off the gown like sun off snow. It’s so blinding it takes me a few seconds to read the time on my bedside clock—and then I gasp.
It’s the middle of the afternoon.
I scramble for my phone, find texts from Marilee, asking when I’m arriving to work, then if I’ll be arriving at all. I rush to respond, typing out apologies, instructions, additional apologies that pile up in blue bubbles. Then, turning the phone face down on my bed, I focus on getting my bearings. I finally slept—which is good. And sure, it was longer than I expected, but maybe that’s what I needed. I haven’t slept so deeply and thoroughly since recovering from my transplant, and even then, there were always interruptions, my parents waking me on a rigid schedule to make sure I took—
My meds.
I slept through my morning dose.
I try to stifle a surge of panic. It’s fine, I’m fine, I know the rules. It’s still more than four hours before my regular nighttime dose, so I can take the missed one now instead of skipping it altogether. The delay just makes me nervous, like my body has noted my carelessness, and now it’s counting down the minutes until it can reject my heart.
I propel myself out of bed and almost walk to the kitchen without taking off the dress, framed by the windows like a bride in her wedding portrait. Stopping at the threshold of my room, I slip the cap sleeves off my shoulders and undo the zipper at the top of the skirt. I should be able to shimmy right out, but the bodice stays in place. I pivot my back toward the mirror, craning to see if the lace is caught on something—and I freeze. Because the lace isn’t stuck or snagged.
It’s buttoned.
But that isn’t possible. I have never been able to button the bodice myself. That’s why Brad saw me that day with the dress gaping open. That’s the whole symbolic point of buttons on wedding dresses; a bride cannot manage buttoning or unbuttoning them on her own, so she needs someone close to her—a parent; a best friend; or, at the end of the night, a partner—to do it.
I rub my eyes, trying to scrub away the grogginess of the sedative. I blink and blink and twist back to the mirror, but still, the bodice is buttoned. Not completely. Not all the way to the top. But higher than I can reach.
Was someone here while I slept? Did Mom come up to see me after hearing I was a no-show at work? If she did, I can’t imagine why she’d button the dress. One look at me and she would have gasped so loud it woke me up, would have called my dad in to witness my new low: Look at her, look what she’s wearing. What is she doing ? What do we do?
But who else then? Nina has a key. She’s let herself in plenty of times—to leave me baked goods or thrift store finds. That was usually while I was working, never late at night, sure, but maybe she saw my texts, assumed I couldn’t sleep again, and wanted to talk about it in person, same as she had earlier in the day at Sweet Bean.
I grab my phone, open our text thread, and am halfway through asking if she stopped here last night when I realize she did respond to my messages. Just after midnight.
Yes, the cop talked to me. And I’m sorry, Rosie, but I think I need a little break.
I reel back. A break from what? From me?
I’m erasing my half-formed text to ask for clarity instead— What does that mean? A break for how long? What would that even — but I stop midquestion when I realize something else: I didn’t have a notification about this message when I woke up. Which means I must have read it when it came in last night. Except I have no memory of that. Same as I don’t remember the transition from standing in front of my mirror to crawling back into bed.
And if I don’t remember those things, is it possible I don’t remember buttoning the dress? I contort my arms behind my back to confirm I’m physically incapable of doing it, and it’s true, I can’t get enough purchase on the tight loops to unhook them. Still, my fingers can just scrape the highest of the buttons. It’s awkward, my arms instantly ache with the effort, but apparently it is feasible that, with a lot of concentration and very nimble fingers, I might have been able to fasten them myself, even if I can’t undo them now.
Would I have had that, though—focus, dexterity—late at night, when I was already so exhausted, when Mom’s sedative was dragging me toward sleep?
At the thought of the drug, I’m jolted back to the fact that I still haven’t taken my meds—and despite my confusion, despite the bodice feeling tighter by the moment, my priority needs to be protecting my heart.
The dress rustles as I hurry to the kitchen, the train lagging behind me, dragging along a floor I haven’t cleaned in days. I try not to think of the dust that might be latching onto the fabric—not only because I need to focus on the task at hand, but also because it’s futile, worrying about dirt on a dress I might never wear again.
Why would anyone want to be with you?
I stop, holding my orange juice. It’s the question Nina asked me yesterday, but my mind has revised it to add a single word, and now the bodice pinches like a corset.
I squeeze the cyclosporine from the syringe, stir the liquid together. What does it mean when your best friend needs a break from you? Nina and I have never taken a break. Even when we went to separate colleges, we were in constant contact with each other, texting updates from the parties we went to, sending pictures of the campus squirrels we’d become obsessed with. Taking a break from her feels like taking a break from eating. It simply isn’t sustainable.
I raise my glass to my lips, and it’s just as I tip my head back that I notice something I rushed past before: my apartment door. It’s open.
The medicine pools in my mouth, bitter as gasoline, but I’m slow to swallow it, my muscles frozen as I stare at the door. Once I choke it down, I force myself to creep closer. It’s open only a couple inches, but it’s enough to reveal that my keys are stuck in the lock on the other side. I wrench them free and shove the door shut.
This must be another thing I don’t remember—leaving my keys in the lock, leaving the door just slightly ajar. It’s irresponsible, but I’ve done it before, when bringing in groceries, when talking on the phone, times when I wasn’t even half as tired as I was last night. And I’d certainly been distracted when I got home yesterday, glued to my screen as I texted Nina.
But as I brace my back with one hand, the buttons of my dress like vertebrae along my spine, I can’t help but wonder if I did close the door—and someone outside saw the keys left in the lock. Used them to enter my apartment.
“Hello?” I call.
Silence answers.
I inch open a kitchen drawer, slide out a chef’s knife, wincing at the snick it makes against the other cutlery.
“Hello?” I repeat, gripping the knife with both fists, more like a baseball bat than a blade.
I open the kitchen closet, the pantry, even knowing the spaces are too shallow for hiding inside. Sweat dews on my forehead as I tiptoe back toward my bedroom, the swish of the dress impossibly loud. From the doorway, I see there’s no one in my open closet, nothing but boxes under my bed. When I edge into the bathroom, I yank the shower curtain back and slash forward with the knife.
Only for an instant do I think of Morgan—the blade in his chest so similar to the one I’m clutching—because then I’m leaning against the wall, my breath speeding in and out.
There’s no one here.
My relief is only momentary. Just because I’m alone right now doesn’t mean I was alone all night.
I think of the warning I received from both Jackson and Blair: that if Other Rosie went so far as to take on my identity, who knows what else she would do. Was it her, slipping into my apartment, fastening my dress in the night? The thought ices the sweat on my skin.
But I still come back to why. Why would anyone want to be you? No—not that. I knead my forehead against the intrusion, tap my knuckles against my skull to call forth the real question. Why would Other Rosie bother with the buttons at all?
It must have been a message. She wanted me to know she’d been here. That she knows where I live. Knows how to get inside my head.
I set the knife on my dresser, grab my phone off the bed. I need to call—someone. The police. Jackson. But that instinct withers as I play out the conversation in my mind: I think Other Rosie broke into my apartment last night. Well, not broke in exactly. I left my keys in the lock outside. But I’m pretty sure she was here because someone buttoned up the wedding dress I was sleeping in—
I stop right there. Almost laugh at how bizarre it sounds. Jackson might already know the whole story of this dress; it came up in court, Brad’s lawyer presenting “the timeline”—the venue visit, my deceitful answers on the paperwork, the dress I confessed to purchasing once Brad caught me in it. One man has already called me crazy for wearing it; I can’t deal with Jackson thinking it, too, then adding it to his list of reasons to keep an eye on me. And if he came here—to investigate the scene, ensure my safety—he’d find me still in the gown, because I can touch the highest button, but unlooping it remains impossible.
Who else can I call? Not my parents, even though they could be here in seconds, free me of the dress they’d be alarmed to see I haven’t sold by now. I can’t exactly go knocking on neighbors’ doors either. That leaves the person I always call, the person who always comes, and I’m already pulling up her name in my Favorites when I remember—again, fresh pain sizzling through my sternum—she asked me for a break.
My thumb hovers above the screen as I spin through everything Jackson might have asked her. Can you tell me why you didn’t think it was a good idea for Rosie to communicate with Morgan? Is there something about her behavior that made you wary of her contacting him? His questions must have made her reconsider my actions, my obsessions, all the messes of mine she’s become accustomed to in loving me this long.
Why would anyone want to be you? Why would anyone want to be with you?
I turn to the full-length mirror. The dress looks better now that it’s buttoned—the bodice doesn’t gape around my torso; the sleeves don’t slip off my shoulders. But better isn’t the same as right . I look nothing like the brides at Just Say Yes, the ones whose smiles light up like neon, the ones whose friends and family buzz around them, bright as bulbs themselves.
Even worse, I see something now I don’t remember noting last night: the sweetheart neckline accentuates my scar, drawing the eye right to it.
When I bought this dress, I had no idea that, soon enough, I’d have a scar to hide. Didn’t know a lacy high neck would be better. Couldn’t conceive my own heart would try to kill me. Nina always says I shouldn’t mask it, shouldn’t limit my wardrobe to crewnecks or boatnecks; I should be proud of what I’ve survived, proud I’m still here. She doesn’t understand that showing it off means showing how bad, how defective, my heart actually was.
But now, in this dress, it’s all anyone would see, the pink ridge of skin that’s both the toughest and tenderest part of me.
I can’t stop staring at it, gruesome against the elegant lace.
Is that the spot where they’ll cut me open again, if I’m lucky enough to get a second transplant? My chest flares with fear: hospital beds, beeping monitors, bruises from IVs. And unlike last time, my parents older, if even still alive, unable to stay by my side. Nina with children she has to care for, family taking priority over friends. No hand committed to holding mine. No one but nurses to give me sporadic company.
My scar stares back at me in the glass.
I claw at the back of the dress again, but the loops are tight, the buttons tiny, and I’m still unable to manage them. I pant with the effort, face flushing an ugly red. For a moment, I consider picking up the knife again, sawing at the fabric until I can rip the whole thing off.
But then sunlight winks off the beads, and I’m reminded of an image I had when I first bought the dress: the bodice shimmering in sync with a diamond on my finger. A ring from someone who wanted to be with me forever. To rip the dress now would be to tear that hope in half.
I do not cut the fabric.
Instead, I watch the mirror. And for a long time, I’m trapped by my reflection, trapped by the gown, with no one here—not a partner nor parent nor friend—who can help to get me out.