28. Beatriz
Beatriz
The glass doors hiss open and cool air kisses our skin gently. The showroom is bright but soft, with pale wood, gold hardware, and mirrors that make the room look endless. The dresses float on racks like captured clouds, ready to be tried on.
Without delay, a woman with glossy hair and a tape measure draped around her neck glides toward us with a smile.
“Welcome,” she says. “You must be Beatriz.”
“That’s me,” I answer, my palms already a little clammy.
Andrea squeezes my arm. “This is going to be amazing.”
Camila bumps my hip with hers, eyes lit. “We’re going to find the right dress for you. Don't worry.”
I smile and try not to cry like I'm starring in a dramatic telenovela.
Papi told me to come here—his treat, his way of saying he wants to make up for all the things he pulled in the name of keeping me safe.
He insisted on a real designer and then sent me the address with a thumbs-up emoji like he just discovered texting.
“I’m Lucía,” the consultant says, leading us to a private area with a round pedestal and three velvet chairs. “Would you like champagne?”
“Sparkling water for me,” Camila says quickly, hand over her belly. “Lime if you’ve got it.”
“Claro.” Lucía looks to me. “Tell me your dream, Beatriz.”
I laugh, half nerves. “Simple. Elegant. I love lace, but I don’t want to look like a doily. I want something that feels like me. Nothing that fights my body. Nothing too poufy.”
Andrea leans in. “No quince dress, por Dios. She’s not turning fifteen.”
Camila stage-whispers to Lucía, “She’s marrying a pro athlete. Keep slits modest.”
“Camila,” I hiss, laughing.
“What? Alejandro would faint. And then your dad would faint. And then your sister and I would have to do damage control, which is fine but dramatic.”
Lucía laughs with us and takes notes. “We’ll start with a range so you can feel silhouettes on your body.” She gestures toward a dressing room with white curtains. “Ready?”
The word travels down to my stomach and weighs heavy.
“Ready.”
Inside, I step out of my sundress and into the first gown, with Lucía’s efficient hands buttoning, smoothing, tucking. The fabric is heavy and bright, the skirt enormous. I step out and onto the pedestal, and both my sister and Camila clap—and then they tilt their heads identically.
Andrea blinks. “You look like a very expensive cupcake.”
Camila pinches her fingers. “Like a tres leches that grew up rich.”
I laugh, lift the skirt and watch a river of tulle spill. “I can’t walk in this.”
“You can waddle in style,” Andrea says. “No, seriously though, you’ll probably trip in that. Not the vibe we're going for.”
Dress two is all sparkle, with sequins that shine like glass stars. I step out, the lights catching me, and both of them shield their eyes.
“Ya basta. That's too much,” Andrea groans. “You’re a disco ball.”
“Okay but hear me out,” Camila says. “The dance floor lighting would be—” She wiggles her fingers. “But also, Alejandro would never find your eyes.”
“I want him to find my eyes,” I say softly, surprised by the quiet certainty of it. “That’s the whole point.”
We keep going. A mermaid that hugs every curve so tightly I can’t sit. A satin column that feels like a slip and nothing else. A plunging neckline that makes Andrea bark, “Not with Papi in the front row.”
A boho lace that looks gorgeous on the hanger and like a tablecloth on me. We laugh and snort and say mean things about ruffles and then apologize to the ruffles and then laugh again.
Between dresses, we talk about nothing and everything.
Camila tells a story about Gael trying to make arroz and texting photos at every step like the pot was a bomb.
Andrea tells Camila the story of Ale at fifteen, shy and furious and brilliant, playing a pickup game at the park while I sat on the curb, pretending to read and actually memorizing the way the sunlight hit his jaw.
“You two were ridiculous,” Andrea says. “He’d bring you those tiny yellow flowers from the side of the road and you’d pretend not to care, then press them in your math book like a drama queen.”
“I was sentimental,” I correct, cheeks warm.
“You were extra,” she counters. “And he loved you for it.”
Dress five tries to be sleek and ends up stiff. I walk out and see my own frown in twelve different mirrors. “Why is this so hard,” I mutter. “I thought I’d know when I saw it.”
“You will,” Camila says gently. “And if you don’t, we’ll make you one.”
Andrea leans forward, studying me with a furrow she doesn’t bother to hide. “None of these are it.”
“No,” I agree, hating the way disappointment creeps up like it'll never go away. “They’re fine. But I don’t want fine. I want…” I trail off. I don’t have the word for it.
“Stay here,” Andrea says suddenly, standing. “Cover your eyes if the next dress is ugly.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Trust me.” She points at Camila. “Don’t let her buy anything while I’m gone.”
Camila salutes. “Copy.”
Andrea slips out with the sudden, focused energy of a woman who remembered something important. Lucía returns with two options in muted garment bags, reading the room quickly.
“Let’s try one more while we wait,” she suggests.
“Okay.” I step back behind the curtain, slide into a crepe sheath with delicate straps and a slit that makes me feel powerful and also like Andrea will stage a protest.
It’s pretty, but it’s not mine.
When I step out, Camila’s smile is sweet and apologetic. “Close,” she says. “But you look like a bridesmaid who elbowed her way to center stage.”
“Thanks,” I deadpan, and we both laugh.
The doors hiss again, and Andrea reappears like a tiny hurricane—cheeks flushed, binder in her arms.
The binder.
Papi once told us about it. A binder he kept since Mami died with notations and vendor cards and swatches that she collected and organized for Andrea and I. Seeing it in my sister's hands knocks my breath right out of me.
“Bee,” she says, voice low, reverent. “Mira. Look right here.”
She lays it on the velvet chair as carefully as you'd lay a sleeping babe. The cover is simple—white linen, a little frayed at the corners. She opens it carefully, and there it is... Mami’s handwriting on the first page, an elegant script that loops our names with love.
For my ninas, she wrote. When it’s your turn, choose love first.
My throat closes, and I sit because my knees are unreliable. Camila drops down beside me and pulls me into her shoulder, already crying because I am.
Andrea flips slowly. There are clippings—florists circled with hearts, a venue in Coral Gables bookmarked with a ribbon, a photo of winter-white arrangements with a note:
For B—December would be magic.
Another page holds two sketches—a-line and sheath—with little arrows where lace would go, buttons down the back, sleeves described in short, sure strokes.
Next to the sketches is Andrea's name on one side, mine on the other.
My date is circled in red pen with a little star drawn next to it---late December.
I trace the letters with my fingertip, careful to memorize each loop, each round of her o's, the curve of her e's. I can hear her voice in my head and smell her perfume, powder and gardenia. I haven’t seen this handwriting in years. It feels like being hugged by something I thought I’d lost.
“She left it for us,” Andrea says, squeezing my shoulder with her hand. “One page for me, one for you. She knew she wouldn’t be around for this moment of our lives, but she still wanted to be a part of it, so she put this together. She knew you, what you liked, what you'd look beautiful in.”
I nod, swallowing painfully. “She did,” I manage. Tears slide and I don’t care. I’m not embarrassed to sob in a place that sells dresses that cost more than my first semester of college. “She really did.”
Lucía takes one look at the page and lights up like she’s been handed a mission. “Give me five minutes,” she says. “No more. I’m going into the back.”
She disappears with her garment bags and we don’t try to make jokes anymore. We look at Mami’s notes and we hold hands, and Camila whispers, “I bet she was an absolutely wonderful mother,” and my heart breaks and heals at the same time.
The curtain rustles, and Lucía returns, eyes bright.
“I think I have something very close to your mother’s sketch,” she says, voice lowered, like she’s afraid of saying something wrong.
“It’s silk crepe. Nice and soft, and not stiff.
It has an illusion lace sleeve and a back that dips but not too much.
Buttons all the way down with absolutely no glitter. ”
My chest stutters. “Okay,” I whisper.
She helps me step in, and the dress slides up with ease. The lining kisses my skin just right. The lace along my arms is delicate but noticeable, a pattern like frost on glass. The back dips tastefully, not too exposed. And the train? Oh, the train! It whispers when I move.
“Don’t look yet,” Lucía says as she buttons. “Breathe.”
I do. For the first time since we got here, breathing is easy.
She smooths the skirt, nods to herself, and opens the curtain.
Andrea's hand flies to her mouth. Camila starts crying before I even reach the pedestal. My own reflection finds me mid-step, and I stop because moving feels like I might ruin it.
It’s me. That’s the only way to say it. Not a version of me I have to perform, not an idea of me that lives better on a hanger. Me.
“Turn,” Lucía says softly.
I turn. The buttons down the back look like tiny pearls.
The lace frames my shoulder blades in a way that makes me think of prayer hands.
The slit is there, something subtle and not the least bit scandalous.
I stop on the pedestal and lift my chin, and the woman in the mirror looks like she knows exactly where she’s going.
Andrea is outright sobbing now. “Ya,” she says, waving her hand. “Ya. That’s the one. That’s it. Don’t move. Everyone freeze. Camila, stop crying or I’ll cry harder.”