Then I turn to examine the smooth silk bodice in the mirror over the sink. The high boatneck and bare arms. The flare of the skirt. The pockets the shop seamstress had added. I’d been so excited about the pockets.

For a second, I let myself feel the sadness.

I’m mourning the Victorian house with its porch, and the gorgeous new kitchen where Peter would cook me dinner. The kids we might’ve had, and the parents we would’ve become. The way that walking through the front door would feel like stepping into a warm hug.

But honestly, the dress itself doesn’t have the same effect it used to. Possibly because it’s now a size and a half too small, the seams straining, my cleavage pushed up like I’m a Tessa Dare heroine courting scandal. Except Tessa’s cover models look sexy and courageous; I look baffled and ridiculous.

I let myself out of the bathroom and sweep into the living room with a dramatic “Ta-da!”

It’s incredibly anticlimactic, wearing your skintight wedding gown into an empty room.

“Hello?” I creep toward the kitchen. It’s empty, though Ashleigh’s phone is on the counter, her playlist still blaring out “Love Is a Battlefield” via Bluetooth speaker.

I traipse back into the living room, but there’s no sign of them. Behind me, the front door clanks open.

I turn and stop short. So does Miles.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi?” He says it like a question, a look akin to horror on his face.

Probably because I’m drifting around the apartment in a gown for a wedding that never happened while Pat Benatar serenades me from the kitchen.

“I’m not wearing this,” I say quickly.

“Okay,” he says.

“I mean, I am wearing this, but not by myself,” I explain.

He looks around the empty apartment.

“Your sister and Ashleigh were here!” I also look around the empty apartment, searching for proof I’m not having a Miss Havisham moment and instead finding wedding supplies everywhere. “They wanted to see the dress, so I put it on, and now they’re . . . somewhere.”

He finally cracks a smile, takes off his sweatshirt, and tosses it over a chair. “I saw them getting into a cab downstairs. Apparently they needed milkshake supplies.”

Which explained what Ashleigh was shouting at me when I was wrestling with the dress. “Ah.” I cross my arms in front of myself.

“I’ll pay you to wear that to Peter and Petra’s wedding,” he says.

“I’ll pay you more,” I say.

His grin splits wide. “It’s a nice dress. You look nice.”

I blush furiously. “I look like an overstuffed cannolo.”

His head cocks. “What’s a cannolo?”

“The singular version of cannoli,” I say.

“So you look delicious,” he says.

“It used to fit better. Or my vision’s just getting better. Or maybe it’s just, the longer this cuts off my oxygen, the prettier the hallucinations get.”

“You look beautiful,” he says, then, with a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, “even better than an Italian pastry.”

As his gaze tracks over me, I get an unadulterated hit of his spicy-sweet scent and lurch toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna go change.”

Inside, I lock the door and face the mirror. Red splotches have spread from the neckline up my throat.

They basically spell out I STILL WANT MILES NOWAK.

I push aside thoughts of what happened between us in his truck and reach back between my shoulders for the zipper. It glides down a few inches, then snags. I turn my back to the mirror and look over my shoulder as I wrestle the zipper over the bump in the fabric. I manage to tug it back up the tracks an inch, but when I draw it down again, it snags even worse.

It won’t budge, and the bodice feels tighter than it did a minute ago. The more I mess with the zipper, the more panicked I become.

My skin feels tender under the seams, my rib cage hurts, I can’t get a good breath, and The Dress. Is. Stuck.

22

I barrel out of the bathroom and smash into Miles, who’s been waiting in the hallway like a nervous first-time father pacing the hospital floors.

“You’re still in it,” he says.

“It’s stuck,” I say. “I think I broke the zipper, and the dress is too tight, and I can’t breathe, and it’s stuck.”

“It’s okay.”

“Oh, is it?” I say. “Then I feel better.”

He’s turning me by the elbow. “I’ll get it. Just try to breathe.” He gathers my hair off my neck so carefully his fingers never brush skin. “Can you hold this out of the way?”

I pin my hair against the back of my head, shoulders and arms throbbing as my heart pumps too much blood to my extremities.

Miles pinches the two sides of the fabric and wiggles the zipper until it gives. At midback, it catches. “Shit. Hold on.”

More pinching, wiggling, straining. I close my eyes and focus on my breath.

The zipper goes up and glides down to the same snag.

“Try to stay still,” he says.

“You keep pulling me off balance,” I say.

“Do you have any ChapStick?” he asks.

“Can your mouth moisturization wait a minute?” I cry.