I stared at that second message until the screen went dark. Of course he knew. He had been her best friend through all of it. He had seen the hallways I had only heard rumors of. He had been building the gown’s bones already. Now he had found its heart.
On the morning of day six, I made the mistake of calling the shoe store from the kitchen.
“Size eight, ivory, low heel,” I said into the phone. “For prom, yes.”
I turned around and Hazel was in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Hazel—”
“I told you to stop.” Her voice broke open. “I told you. Why won’t you listen to me?”
“Baby—”
“You keep trying to drag me back to who I was. She’s gone, Mom. She died when Mason died. Why can’t you accept that?”
“Because I love who you are now too,” I said, and my voice was shaking. “I love you in this kitchen. I love you in that hoodie. I just want you to have one night.”
“For who?” she shouted. “For you? For him?”
She slammed her door so hard the picture frames jumped.
I stood there with the phone still in my hand.
I almost called Eli right then. I almost walked across the lawn and told him to put down the needle, that I had been wrong, that I was sorry for his fingers.
Instead, I walked.
His mother let me in without a word and pointed up the stairs.
I pushed his door open.
He was asleep at the sewing machine, cheek pressed against the table, one hand still curled around a spool of thread. My photographs were printed and fanned across the floor beside him, names circled in pencil. The dress stood on a mannequin behind him.
Ivory. Structured. Roses blooming in tiers down the skirt like a garden someone had grown overnight.
