I moved across the room and unzipped the garment bag.
The dress slipped easily into my hands. My mother laid it across the bed before the bedroom filled with people carrying brushes, flowers, cameras and steaming cups of coffee.
The next two hours became everyone's except mine.
The stylist pinned my hair into place while the makeup artist worked in silence. The photographer asked for pictures by the window, then beside the wardrobe, then near the fireplace.
"One more."
"You've said that four times."
He laughed nervously.
"This really is the last."
I stood where he asked.
The camera clicked.
"Perfect."
"I wasn't aiming for perfect."
By the time everyone stepped back, my phone vibrated on the dressing table.
Ryan sent a message.
Just making sure you're okay on your big day ð.
