I stood in front of the mirror.
“She ruined it, Mom.”
Mom was sitting behind me.
“She tore it. That’s not the same thing.”
“She ruined it, Mom.”
I turned.
“Mom, look at it.”
“I am.”
The lace we’d chosen together hung unevenly from the back.
One bridesmaid carefully pinned a torn section underneath.
Mom watched her.
The lace we’d chosen together hung unevenly from the back.
Then she looked at me.
Before she could say anything else, someone knocked.
Our photographer stepped inside with her camera.
“Nathan needs to see something,” she said.
Nathan had followed her upstairs.
“What?”
“Nathan needs to see something.”
“I was shooting candid frames before Andrea’s dress tore.”
She turned the camera around.
There was Isabella behind us.
Nathan scrolled once, then stopped.
There was Isabella behind us.
In that photograph, Isabella was looking directly down at my train. Her heel hovered above the lace, already angled toward it. She wasn’t distracted or looking at another guest.
