8. Alexis #3
I glance down at the t-shirt in my hands.
It’s going to take some doing to get out of this dress.
I don’t think I’ll be able to do it alone.
It’s laced up in the back so intricately that I’m sure I’ll just end up tangling myself further.
The last thing I want is to stand here struggling while Gabriel looks on.
“Um, could you—” I start, my voice cracking. “Could you help me with this?”
Gabriel pauses, his brows knitting together as he processes my request. “Sure,” he murmurs. He approaches me, and I turn my back to him, feeling a rush of nerves as I face away.
His fingers brush against my bare shoulders as he begins to untie the laces and work on the zipper. I hug the bodice to my chest, feeling exposed under his touch, but the sensation sends a thrill through me. His movements are careful and deliberate, and I can sense the tension radiating off him.
Finally, the last of the laces come undone, and the dress loosens around me. My grip tightens around my torso. I don’t want to step out of it here. I already feel vulnerable enough as it is.
As if he can read my mind, Gabriel gives a small cough and inclines his head to the side, toward the adjoining bathroom. I nod gratefully and make my escape, clutching my loose wedding dress and my pajamas to my body like they’re a shield.
The bathroom door closes behind me with a little click. I exhale and open my arms, letting everything fall to the floor—the dress, the pajamas, the tension. I step out of the pile of fabric, approaching the marble sink.
Oh, god. I can’t do this.
I can feel tears brewing, and I swallow hard, trying to force them back down. Somehow, my makeup has survived the night, and I’m not about to ruin it now.
I put on the t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, then start the arduous process of removing bobby pins from my hair.
Eventually, it cascades down my shoulders, smooth and shining from whatever conditioner the stylist used.
I stare into the mirror for a long moment, absent-mindedly running my fingers through the waves.
For a long moment, I debate whether or not to remove my makeup. I touch my reflection, tracing the line of my jaw and the delicate arch of my eyebrows.
No, I decide at last. It stays—at least, for now.
I pluck the wedding dress from the floor and steel myself, preparing to leave the sanctuary of the bathroom. When I step back into the room, Gabriel is in bed, leaning against the headboard. The sheets are pulled up to his chest.
I lay the wedding dress across the open armchair. The two chairs, with the dress and Gabriel’s suit, sit opposite each other almost as awkwardly as we do.
Then I turn back toward the bed.
This is it. This is the moment I’ve been mentally preparing for since I was twelve years old.
This was part of my mother’s explanations of womanhood: what to expect on your wedding night.
No matter how many times I’ve run through hypotheticals and rehearsed this moment in my mind, nothing could prepare me for it. Not really. Anxiety knots my stomach as I move woodenly toward the bed.
The glow of the bedside lamp silhouettes Gabriel. The way the light catches the angles of his face highlights the stubble along his jaw. His arms are splayed out, hands folded behind his head as he reclines, his triceps perfectly defined.
The flutter of nerves in my stomach rises again, but this time, it feels different. There’s a thrill mingling with the anxiety, a sense of anticipation that makes my heart race.
I climb into bed beside him. The mattress dips slightly under my weight, and it’s all I can do not to roll toward him, like gravity is trying to draw us together. The space between us feels charged, electric, and my heart beats faster as I settle in, pulling the covers up around my shoulders.
For a long moment, we lie there in silence.
In this house, I realize, I can hear the city in the distance—the muffled sounds of traffic, a distant siren wailing.
It was always so quiet in my condo that I could only hear the refrigerator from down the hall.
These sounds are so natural by comparison, and they help me soothe myself as I wait for Gabriel to act.
Gabriel shifts, turning to glance at me. His eyes are dark in the low light. “Alexis, I’m not going to have sex with you.”
His words are abrupt and unexpected. Was I really that transparent? Can he actually read my mind? I blink, my heart racing as I process what he just said.
“Um, okay,” I manage to reply, a mix of relief and embarrassment washing over me. A touch of disappointment too, which I don’t really know how to process.
“We barely know each other. And I’m not going to force myself on a woman just because we’ve been bound together by an arranged marriage.”
I nod. “I… yeah. Um. Thank you.”
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans over and turns off the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness that’s lit only by the faint glow of city lights filtering through the curtains.
I lie in the dark for a long time, on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I’m so aware of him beside me—his deep, even breaths as he drifts off, the firmness of his body, the warmth of him—that I can’t imagine sleeping.
Eventually, though, my exhaustion wins out.