Page 181 of Collide
I have some notes, LOL. Just kidding, you killed it.
I laugh, shaking my head. But as I scroll, my heart sinks.
Nothing from Alex? Maybe he’s busy with work. I try my best to set aside the feeling of disappointment as I hurry out the door.
The bridal boutique is nestled in a quiet, upscale corner of Manhattan, all soft lighting and ivory fabrics. Philippa waits outside with Carole and my father.
They see me, and Phillipa and Carole both rush to embrace me, gushing over my performance this morning. My father stands to the side, simply nodding. His expression is unfamiliar—pride, maybe?
While Carole, Mortimer, and I sit on the plush sofa, sipping complimentary champagne, we wait for Philippa to emerge from the dressing room.
She steps out, and I’m momentarily stunned. The dress clings to her perfectly, the intricate lacework of the bodice catching the soft light like something out of a dream. Her gown drapes elegantly around her, the most glamorous veil cascading down with delicate lace details. She looks breathtaking.
I don’t much believe in marriage—maybe I never have. But standing here, watching my sister glow in a dress meant for forever, I can at least appreciate the beauty of it, even if I don’t believe in the promise it represents.
“Oh, Philippa,” Carole gushes.
“Do you guys love it?” she asks.
“Wow, you look like Mom.”
Philippa’s eyes soften at my response. Carole hangs her head at the mention of my mom.
“Oh, Dad, please don’t cry. If you do, then I will, and then I won’t be able to stop,” Philippa says, her voice thick with emotion.
My father sits silently, his eyes welling with tears. I try to ignore the sting of jealousy creeping in. The way he looks at her, the softness in his eyes—it’s something I don’t think I’ve ever been on the receiving end of. And that thought stings even more.
We all watch as the seamstress makes small adjustments to Philippa’s dress before she heads back to the dressing room to change.
“Elena, I just wanted to tell you again how proud I was of your performance this morning,” says Carole, making small talk.
“Thank you.”
I know she’s trying to be kind, but being friendly with her feels like such a betrayal to my mother.
“Your voice is so wonderful, it always has been. Such a powerful gift to have,” she adds.
“It’s definitely something,” my father adds, catching me completely off guard. “You handled the interview well.”
Before I can respond, Philippa bounds out of the dressing room.
“Your turn,” she sing-songs, snatching my hand and dragging me toward the back. In a flurry of fabric and impatience, she strips me down and shoves me into the bridesmaid dress she selected.
As she zips me into my dress, she lets out a low whistle. “Damn, sis, you look amazing.”
I glance at my reflection—the champagne floor-length dress hugs my frame perfectly. It’s fitted off-the-shoulder bodice exuding an understated elegance. Simple and sophisticated.
And yet, despite the warmth in Philippa’s voice, despite the excitement of the moment, a thought that’s been sitting on my tongue finally slips out.
“I know you probably only asked me to be your maid of honor because we’re sisters.” My chest tightens. Unable to meet her eyes, I keep my tone light, though there’s a heaviness behind it.
Philippa pauses, her hands stilling on my shoulders as she meets my gaze in the mirror. For a moment, I brace for one of her classic, polished responses. The kind that keeps emotions neatly contained, that sidesteps anything too raw. But instead, she exhales, her expression softening.
“Yes, that’s one of the reasons,” she admits with a small smile. “But also, I asked you because I want this to be the start of us rebuilding what’s been broken between us. We barely had time together growing up, always tangled up in Mom and Dad’s mess. But their baggage isn’t our baggage. It never should have been.”
Her words land softly, but they hit deep. The weight of our family’s history has always sat between us like an unspoken wall, built brick by brick by years of resentment, misunderstandings, and circumstances beyond our control.
Nodding, I take in her expression—the sincerity. This is Philippa, not the polished, put-together version that fits neatly into our father’s world, but my sister, the girl who used to sneak into my room and braid my hair when I had nightmares.
