I slept in the dress.
Not well. The clock said six-fifty when I gave up. My body remembered him before my brain did — the stretch, the wet, the word he had put in my ear. I peeled the rehearsal dress off and stood under the shower until the water ran cold. I washed between my legs and still felt marked. I put on the robe the hotel had hung on the door and looked at the bridesmaid dress in the closet like it was a sentence.
Hair and makeup at nine. Walk at eleven. I had two hours to become a daughter again.
A knock at 614 was not Mom.
I cracked the door on the chain.
Roman. Already in black trousers, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, no jacket. Coffee in one hand. He looked like he had slept as badly as I had.
“Zipper,” he said.
“I have a stylist for that.”
“She’s in 620 with yo
