“Okay, let me get this straight.” Zara’s loud voice messes up the quietness of the boutique.
My fingers are tracing the edge of a lace lingerie on a mannequin. The material is so soft it feels like water.
“Wedding dress, check!”
“Heels, the ones that cost more than my first car, check!”
“The makeup artist who’s a literal angel with a brush, check!”
“The venue that looks like God’s personal balcony, check!”
“We are done, babe. Finito!”
“Why are we in a temple of sin looking at fabric triangles that wouldn’t cover a damn n****e?”
I finally look at her, sitting on a red velvet couch with her legs crossed, but her eyes are buried in her phone.
“It’s not a triangle, Zara. Look at the strap work on this one.”
I point at the intricate crisscross of silk on the dummy. “It’s… architectur
