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I’m pregnant. As in, going to have a freaking baby.
Hot tears slip down my cheeks.
What am I going to do? How will I tell the guys? Do they even want kids?
Panic rises in me like a hurricane, and I try not to hyperventilate.
“Christina! Are you almost ready? We have to go to your dress fitting.” My mom calls out, knocking on my bathroom door.
Dress fitting. Shit. My fucking wedding dress.
“Be right there!” I call back.
I shove the little plastic test back in the box and tuck it away under a pile of tampons in my drawer.
I’m fairly confident Enzo and Nico don’t go through my stuff to that degree so at least it will be safe from discovery for a little while.
I splash some cold water on my face and throw my hair up in a bun. I don’t look my best, but at least I look acceptable enough to go out with my mother. I slide the engagement ring on my finger and try not to throw up.
With any luck, Victoria won’t even bother showing up.
***
“Hmmm.” The lady grabs the back of the dress and tries to pull it tighter. “Did you gain weight?” She starts to mutter beneath her breath, circling me as if to find the exact spot of my offense. “I don’t understand how this happened so fast.”
It’s only been a few weeks since the original dress fitting and I start to panic.
“I’m probably just bloated from lunch,” I grumble. The woman mutters something unintelligible and pulls at the corset strings tighter.
I look in the mirror and imagine myself growing larger. The dress only just fits now – there’s no way it will fit in another few months.
Fuck.
I rest my hands on my stomach and wince as the woman yanks on the strings harder. I feel like I can’t breathe.
My mother walks over.
“Is there a problem?” She asks, looking at me and the seamstress.
“No,” I answer quickly.
The seamstress grunts. “She doesn’t fit the dress. I will need to make alterations.”
My mother raises an eyebrow at me, and I wilt under her stare. I step off the pedestal and move toward the dressing room.
Suddenly, the fabric of this dress is making my skin crawl. I need it off. I hurry into the changing room, the dress billowing around me.
I hate it.
I hate the satin-shininess of it. I hate the cut. I hate the train. I hate everything about it.
“Christina,” she asks, following me. “What’s going on?”
I make it to the safety of the changing room and my mother follows me in.
“What’s the matter?” She asks, reaching out for my hand.
Her touch makes me lose it completely.
