CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Johanna
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Johanna
“DOWN BAD” — TAYLOR SWIFT
Present Day
The first hints of morning sun slip through the completely useless hotel room curtains.
My head is pounding.
I crack one eye open and regret it instantly.
The room swims around me just enough to remind me of the questionable decisions I made last night—although I don’t quite remember all of them.
An empty champagne flute sits on the nightstand, and at the foot of the bed, a metal stand holds a bucket of melted ice and a half-empty bottle of Dom Pérignon.
Well, that explains a lot.
Not even a moment later, the sound of my alarm explodes through the previously quiet room.
I groan loudly and squeeze my eyes shut again, flinging an arm blindly towards the nightstand until I finally grasp my hand around my phone. Rolling onto my back and forcing both eyes open, I swipe across the screen to silence the obnoxious ringtone.
It’s early—far earlier than I’d like it to be.
It’s also wedding day.
Fuck.
Thankfully, I’d had the good sense to set the alarm before opening the bottle of Dom last night. I have about an hour to get some caffeine and maybe a bagel in my system—if I can stomach it—before I have to be at the bridal suite to get ready. If I get up now, I even have time for a quick shower.
I open my messages to text Mia and see if the rest of the girls are awake when the last text thread on my phone catches my eye.
The recipient?
Brandon. Fucking. Jackson.
My heart kicks violently against my ribs as I scroll. It’s not long before I find myself flinging the covers off and bolt for the bathroom, my stomach lurching.
“Oh my God,” I mutter aloud to no one but my damn self.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
I want to talk about us.
I barely make it to the toilet in time when the nausea takes over and bile starts to burn in the back of my throat.
What the hell was I thinking?
I press my forehead against the cool porcelain, breathing through each wave of sickness as my phone buzzes faintly on the counter above me.
Clearly, the champagne—no matter how much anxiety it had relieved at the time—had gone straight to my head, and I hadn’t been thinking at all.
Because sober Johanna Harris does not text her brother’s best friend emotional, life-altering confessions after midnight.
Sober Johanna does not ask him to wait for her.
She certainly does not tell him she can’t stop thinking about him.
When I’m sure I’ve gotten rid of the entire contents of my stomach, I flush and push myself up from the tiled bathroom floor. I brush my teeth at the sink, then brace my hands against the counter and reluctantly meet my reflection.
The remnants of my mascara are smudged beneath tired eyes—hair tangled and face pale to match.
You did this, I tell myself. Now you get to live with it—on your brother’s wedding day.
After a shower, some light skincare, and a hefty dose of Zofran, I finally feel like I’ve been brought back from the dead.
I’ll be able to make it through this wedding—physically.
Emotionally?
That’s a completely different issue.
Even still, I move on autopilot. I pack my garment bag carefully with my dress, then fill a duffle with my shoes, makeup bag, accessories, and every other essential I might need to survive the next twelve to fourteen hours.
I double-check everything, because control—even the slightest amount—feels like all I have right now.
When I’m sure I’ve got everything, I give the room a final once-over. I’ve placed the empty flute and the ice bucket in the hallway, erasing the physical evidence of any sort of spiral that may have occurred here last night.
I sling the bags over my shoulder and grab my purse from the desk by the door.
I’ve decided to Uber to the venue rather than take the limo with the other girls. It’s antisocial and maybe a little selfish of me—I know—but I need a few more moments of peace before I’m expected to be the happy, supportive Maid of Honor.
I step into the hallway, the door clicking shut softly behind me.
Just a little more time, I promise myself.
Then I’ll be ready.
I could walk a runway right now.
My makeup is flawless. A shimmer of blush brings life back into my cheeks. The exhaustion is erased from the icy blue tones of my eyes with help from a dusting of copper shadow and perfectly applied eyeliner.
I finally look awake. Polished. Like someone who has their life together.
My dark hair is styled half up with the top sections loosely braided and pinned back while the rest of the length cascades down my back in effortless, soft waves.
The dress helps, too—a black satin gown with delicate straps and a fitted bodice.
It’s the kind that could bring grown men to their knees.
The skirt flares into a fluid sweep, a daring thigh-high slit breaking the illusion of modesty.
It moves like liquid shadow, like it was made for me and only me.
I’m studying myself in the full-length mirror, wondering if confidence can be faked long enough to pass as real, when Mia catches me staring.
Her hair and makeup are finished too—her features are glowing, soft, and unmistakably bridal. She’s missing only one thing.
“Hey, Jo,” she says, pulling my attention away. “I need you.”
“Of course,” I say instantly, ready to follow her anywhere.
We move into one of the smaller side rooms of the bridal suite, where the dress hangs alone—waiting. It rests against the far wall, bathed in the soft light of afternoon filtered through the tall windows. It looks so impossibly effortless for something that had consumed so many sleepless nights.
This dress. For this day. For this person who means more to me than she knows.
I step closer, almost afraid to touch it as my fingers hover just above the fabric.
Ivory silk tulle spills from the waist in weightless layers, catching the light with a subtle shimmer that makes it look alive.
Near the hem, delicate floral appliqués bloom—an echo of the ones from her rehearsal dinner dress, softer and more refined.
The bodice is agonizingly intricate—lace embroidered with fine thread, tiny beads glinting softly within the pattern.
A gentle but undeniably sexy v-neck dips just low enough, illusion tulle offering the perfect balance of vulnerability and strength.
Thin straps rest lightly on the padded hanger, elegant and unassuming.
It’s timeless. Romantic, but not fragile. Strong, but not severe.
It’s Mia.
My chest tightens as she steps beside me and brushes her fingers against the skirt with reverence.
“It’s beautiful,” she says quietly, like there’s no debate to be had.
I force myself to swallow. “I just wish—”
“It’s perfect,” she interrupts, more firmly this time. “Because you made it.”
She turns to face me fully, her eyes steady and sure in a way mine haven’t been in a long time.
“That’s exactly why I’m nervous,” I admit with a small, shaky laugh. “I hadn’t ever made a wedding dress before, Mia. I know some of the best designers in the world. I should’ve asked one of them to do this.”
“I trusted you, even when you didn’t trust yourself,” Mia assures me. “I’ve seen your sketches, Jo. I knew you were the one meant to make my dress. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t believe in you.”
Her words almost break me, but instead, I take a steadying breath and reach for the hanger.
I’ve been sketching for years, and one night during tour Mia came across my sketchbook by accident.
At first I’d been upset that she’d seen something so personal—something I hadn’t been ready to share with anyone—but now, I’m relieved to have someone cheering me on.
She doesn’t know it, but when she asked me to design this dress, I’d been ready to throw away my dream of seeing my designs on the runway or in a storefront display.
Mia gave me the motivation and confidence I needed to keep pushing for a goal that now doesn’t seem too far out of reach.
The fabric is deceptively light as I lift the dress free, the silk tulle whispering softly. My hands know this garment better than almost everything else I’ve ever touched. I know every seam, every hidden stitch, and all the ways it moves.
There’s only one other thing I used to know this well.
“Okay,” I murmur, more to myself than to Mia as I hold the dress open. “Step in.”
Mia slips out of her robe and folds it neatly over the back of the chair in the corner of the room. She steps forward without hesitation, trusting me completely as she places one bare foot—and then the other—into the waiting layers.
I guide the fabric up slowly, carefully, as if every detail rides on this exact moment.
The dress settles against her hips like it was always meant to be there, and my throat tightens at the sight of it. I step behind her, delicately lifting her hair out of the way as I fasten the back, button by button. The room feels impossibly still. My fingers stay steady, even as my chest aches.
When I’ve finished, I move back to the front and adjust the neckline to make sure it rests just right. After I smooth my hands over the bodice, I tug gently at the waist, watching the skirt fall into its full, airy shape.
Once I’m satisfied, I rest my hands lightly on her shoulders.
“There,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “That’s it.”
I guide her to face the mirror, and watch as her expression changes when her reflection comes into focus. Her breath catches and eyes widen, the dress moving with her as if it’s part of her.
She lifts a hand to her chest, her engagement ring sparkling subtly on her finger.
“Oh,” she breathes.
She turns back to me, eyes glassy, fighting happy tears.
“Johanna,” she says, her voice thick. “You did this.”
Something in me finally cracks.
“I just made the dress,” I say quietly. “You’re the one who makes it beautiful.”
She steps forward and wraps her arms around me, cautious of the fabric but unrestrained in everything else.
I hug her back as tightly as I can without disrupting the dress or her look, knowing this is a perfect moment I’ll always remember, even if the rest of this day goes straight to hell once we leave this room.
“Thank you,” Mia whispers. “I’ve got a lot of sisters—but you’re the one I never knew I needed.”
I close my eyes, letting her words sink in.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’ve ruined everything.
I feel like I’ve created something that will last forever.