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‘Space Cowboy’ - Kacey Musgraves
“No bachelorette party?” the seamstress asks as she pokes the dress I’m wearing with a new pin.
“Sorry?”
“You are not going out before the wedding with all your girlfriends?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She grunts, clearly unimpressed by my lack of plans. I would normally agree, except for the fact that this marriage is a farce and I’m a pawn in a horrible man’s game.
“Your husband a nice man?” she asks, dragging my attention down to her kneeling frame. She pins and pins, making sure the thick satin is flush with my waist and chest.
“No.”
She laughs. “My first husband was a bastard; used to hit me when I couldn’t read his mind. My second husband, much better. Didn’t knowhow to hang up a towel after a shower, but he always knew when to play music and when to pass me a glass of wine.”
My stomach lurches at the memory of last night. Dinner, wine, knives, guns, my life burnt to the ground.
“That’s lovely,” I manage around my rapidly thickening throat.
I stayed with Martise last night. She held me as I sat on the bed in a daze, my face puffy and my body numb. I fell asleep, curled into a ball, my arms around a dense pillow while a movie on the TV played in the background.
I woke several times during the night, always surprised to see Martise next to me instead of Odin. Still, her presence was needed. Her care and feminine attention was exactly what I craved after such a horrendous night caged in by too many cruel men.
Everytime I think of Cerbera, I dream of sinking my nails into his face and ripping his skin from his skull. I dream of going back in time and stabbing him in the neck instead of playing his stupid game.
Maybe I am my father’s daughter, after all.
Hot-headed. Violent. Unremorseful.
The seamstress hums in response, too many pins between her teeth. We fall back into silence while I observe myself in the large mirror in front of me. The dress I picked was the first one I saw. I could have kept searching, but the second they put a veil in my hair, I knew I couldn’t continue.
For the first time, I saw my mother in my features. I saw her strength, her wide-open view of the world, and her kindness. I saw her in the shape of my nose and my cheeks. The contour of my collarbones and the way I held my shoulders up despite wanting them to sag into the earth and make a home amongst the worms.
Her presence was right next to me, holding my hand and whispering encouragement. I could almost feel the shape of her palm against my own, squeezing tight.
It rocks me to the core, pressing on the wound in my chest that is always seeping, never closed.
Thankfully, I have no more tears left to shed.
I have no more emotions. Period. I’m just a body, my soul wandering far away.
“Like?” the seamstress asks, standing beside me. The dress is a crisp pearl unblemished white satin, with a straight neckline, no straps and a loose mermaid fit. The special feature is the large bow at the back and the gloves that reach up to my elbows. My mother had worn short gloves when she married Shaggy when I was young. I remembered thinking it was silly, knowing they would get dirty when she wanted to eat dinner. Now, I’m glad she did, because I get to carry it on at my own wedding. A little piece of her to take with me during a time that I need her the most.
She grabs a larger veil this time, long enough to trail to the floor at the back and the front. I place it on, covering my face. I want to close my eyes and disappear.
I nod, swallowing the saliva that has built in my throat. “Yes. I like it.”
She nods and takes the veil and the gloves away to pack in a bag. The dress comes off next. “It should be ready by tomorrow,” she says and takes it out the back. I put on my shorts and shirt and leave the dressing room to make my way over to Ford and Gwen. Martise had to stay back at the hotel to check in on the lodge. Omandi’s betrayal left a lot of loose ends that she needs to tie up. I can’t help thinking of him and his decision to do Cerbera’s bidding. The desperation he must have felt. If I had known Cerbera was going to burn down my clinic, I would have done anything to prevent it, even if it meant hurting people I cared about.
“Happy?” Ford asks. He’s been trying to get me to talk all morning. I’ve tried my best, but choosing a wedding dress is not on my list of things to be doing.
“Sure,” I say and shrug. Ford purses his lips and opens the door to let us out into the heat. Gwen is completely out of place as a wedding organizer once again. She’s dressed in a denim skirt, sandals and ripped T-shirt with a famous band on the front. Her eyes are rimmed with the smudged black eyeliner, which suits her tremendously, but also makes her appear standoffish.
“The spa appointment is not for another hour. Did you want to go see some sights?” she asks. She seems antsy. Not particularly happy to be with me. I don’t take any offense; I’ve been horrible to hang around this morning, too.
My answer pauses on the tip of my tongue when I spot something interesting. A group of girls have turned on the street, laughing and giggling as they flip their flowing hair off their faces. They’re dressed up in skirts and dresses and jumpsuits, faces painted with makeup that makes them glow, heading right toward a restaurant with numerous patrons sipping cocktails and being sprayed by a light mist from the fans in the ceiling.
