Chapter 22
twenty-two
PRESENT DAY
KATE
“Oh, honey.” Susan glows with maternal pride as she takes in her daughter. She claps two hands to her wrinkled cheeks, blue eyes glistening with moisture. “That’s the one.”
“You think?” Amantha lifts two fistfuls of white satin as she carefully makes her way from the bridal dressing room to the mirrored pedestal in the middle of the room. “I’ve tried on so many I think I’m going wedding dress blind.”
I’m sandwiched on a velvet bench between Susan and Amantha’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, Camilla. Susan has equally gushed over each of the last thirteen wedding dresses, and Camilla looks so enraptured by the whole affair that she can’t stop leaking happy tears.
“Kate. I need your help.” Amantha chews her lip in the tri-fold mirror, her gray eyes meeting mine through the glass. Her hair is swept into a sloppy mom bun that couldn’t be more on brand for her, but she’s glowing.
The dress is stunning, albeit too modest and simple for my taste.
It’s all clean lines and modern chic on her curvy frame.
Solid panels of white satin climb the boning of the corset, ending in a strapless neckline with the barest whisper of cleavage.
Much like the dress I convinced her to wear to Stirling’s soiree last year, limp satin sleeves drape across her upper arms, as the full satin ball gown puffs out at the waist. The same shining fabric trails a few feet behind her.
Beautiful, classic, and simple. My best friend in a nutshell.
Worry lines her expression as she waits for my assessment. Maybe it’s because she’s an only child with no sisters, but she’s always taken my fashion advice as law.
But this time, I want her to choose. She’s come so far from the unsure woman I first met, and this moment feels monumental.
“What do you think?” I ask.
She huffs out a breath. “Kaaaate! You can’t do that to me!
” Stomping a few times within the confines of her skirt, Amantha points at me through the mirror.
“I was dumb enough to plan a wedding in less than five months, so I don’t have time for a custom dress.
You need to help me make this decision!”
I laugh, but I stand in my long sleeve fuchsia wrap-around dress. It’s casual enough to be worn as a day dress, fluttering past the knees of my black tights but stops a good six inches above my pointy black boots.
I walk to stand beside the pedestal. “I won’t abandon you, but I’m also not making this choice for you.” I grin at her eye roll. “You love Val. Val loves you. You’ve looked incredible in all the dresses. But this is your fresh canvas, remember? Which dress feels most like you?”
Amantha goes back to chewing her lip, sweeping her eyes over the mirror. Something shifts in her expression, emotion alighting deep in her eyes.
Wordlessly, she steps off the pedestal and walks toward the mirror. Stopping a few inches from the glass, Amantha lifts her fingertips and presses them against it. I watch her gray eyes slowly fill with tears before she breaks into a glorious smile.
“It’s me,” she whispers.
The proclamation is so hushed, only I hear. And although I don’t quite understand the intensity or meaning beneath those two words, her expression is clear.
So I step closer and pull her into a gentle side hug. “Then, it’s you.”
Soon our entire party is blubbering, dabbing tissues, and clinking champagne glasses.
Warmth wraps around my heart as I watch Amantha get swallowed up in Val’s sister’s embrace. From what I know of Val’s past, I know this moment means a lot to Camilla, too. Amantha has been through hell and back, and I’m honored to witness her happily ever after.
Susan bustles around her daughter, smoothing satin and tugging the train, her summer blue eyes the epitome of adoration. An ache in my gut begins as a tiny pinprick, spreading until it’s a mile wide.
Jealousy isn’t a word I’d use to describe the feeling. That feels too active, too petty. No, what I’m feeling is a black hole, an empty void that will never be filled.
I picture myself on the pedestal, draped in a stunning gown. I can see Liza there, clapping and squealing right alongside me.
But the second I stitch my mother into the scene, it all starts to fray. She’d be so critical, so disappointed with whatever I chose.
But Susan is not my mother. So I try to soak in her soft energy, absorb her compliments and motherly words at a secondhand rate.
Twenty minutes later, Amantha and I step outside while Camilla and Susan schedule Amantha’s final dress fittings. Amantha zips her navy winter coat over her chambray blue button-up and hugs me.
She breaks our embrace, stepping back. “Val’s picking up Anthony from Ryan’s, and then we’re all headed to Nonna’s to spend the day with Val’s family. You’re welcome to come if you want.” Amantha’s gray eyes are kind, as if she’s attuned to my rising tide of sadness.
I love my best friend, but I’m not going to put a damper on her family get-together. Plus, if she keeps looking at me like a stray puppy, I’m going to start ugly crying. This is her day, and I refuse to disrupt her bridal glow.
“I shouldn’t, but thank you for inviting me.” I change the subject. “Did you say Val’s picking up Anthony from Ryan’s? Yikes. How’s that going?”
Amantha’s mouth twists. “Probably how you think it’s going.
Ryan doesn’t spare a word about how much he hates Val being around Anthony.
Val despises Ryan, but he would never badmouth Anthony’s dad in front of him.
Ever.” Her anger ebbs into something softer.
“Val’s gonna make the best dad. I mean, Anthony already loves him so much.
Plus, Val’s hot. Did I mention how hot he is? ”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You might have mentioned it.”
Amantha’s laugh tinkles as Camilla and Susan rejoin us, then they all say goodbye.
I stand on the sidewalk, watching them go.
My day is wide open, and I have no clue what to do with it now. My heart feels bruised from watching my future self on that wedding pedestal.
I know I’m getting better at handling being alone, but going back to an empty apartment is too much right now.
The clouds grow heavy and gray, and snow begins to fall. I trudge aimlessly down the sidewalk before realizing I’m somewhat close to the museum.
An idea sparks a flicker of hope.
One of my SD cards filled with mural photos sits abandoned in my closet of an office. The photos need editing before they go to print. Spending the rest of my Saturday playing with pretty pictures sounds way better than tipsy-crying on my couch.
I flag a taxi, looking forward to the warmth of the cab. After giving the driver the address, I recline against the seat. My phone buzzes with a text.
UNKNOWN: Roses are red, violets are blue, I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you. BTW, you look beautiful today. Pink is definitely your color. -Hopefully Yours
I blanch, flicking my eyes to the driver as if he can save me.
A list of places I’ve been today scrolls through my mind at record speed.
My spin bike class held only regulars, minus Julia, who decided that sore nether regions were definitely not worth it.
And the coffee shop I stopped into before Pulse Fitness had been bursting with a crowd, impossible for me to remember a single face.
With Levi eradicated as a suspect, I’m at a loss. I’m nothing but a terrified fish in a glass barrel with too many people watching.
Well, one person watching.
I add this number to my growing list of the ones that Hopefully Yours has used. I’ve tried texting each of them countless times to no avail. Undeliverable. I chew the inside of my cheek, a tentative idea edging into my mind. I hit “call” on the latest number and hold my breath.
It rings.
It’s actually ringing.
Each passing second makes my heart hammer harder in anticipation for whose voice will soon be on the other line.
Then the call drops with an error beep.
I curse, pulling up each of the other numbers and calling them as well. Each disconnects with the same beep.
I frown down at my phone, but I guess it kind of makes sense. If my texts are undeliverable, why would my calls be any different?
It’s like whatever method H.Y. is using to harass me with is hellbent against me discovering their identity. Unless they’re biding their time until the perfect moment…
I curse again, rifling through my bag until my fist curls around my pepper spray. The metal encasement is smooth beneath my fingers, and I count my exhales as I trace circles across the silver surface.
I’m going to be fine.
Whoever it is will tire of their little game, and soon this whole mystery will be in the past.
I tip the driver and place one heeled boot after the other onto the sidewalk in front of the museum.
I’ve barely closed the taxi’s door when I sense movement behind me, way too close for comfort.
“Aghhh!” I whirl, popping the encased pepper spray open and ready to aim.
“Holy—” A blur of black dreads ducks beneath my arm, and I look down to find Rohan cowering. “Kate! Stop! It’s just me.”
I clutch the canister to my harried breathing. “You scared me.”
“Obviously.” Rohan dusts his hands off on his jeans and stands, chest heaving as he eyes my tiny weapon. “You sure know what you’re doing with that thing.”
“Yeah,” I pant. “I do.”
The taxi pulls away as I try to compose myself.
Rohan’s full cheeks lift into a tentative smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that. Just wanted to say hi.”
“Well, hi.” I laugh, but it still sounds breathy. I gesture up the limestone steps to the museum. “You working a Saturday shift?”
His two-inch dreads flop as he nods. “Just got done, actually.”
“Rats,” I say with a smile. “Could’ve used a matcha latte right about now.”
“Don’t worry, babe.” He winks. “I’ll have it ready on Monday. That is, unless you’re free for dinner tonight?”
I push a palm into his shoulder, and he laughs.
“You never give up, do you?” I say.