Page 1 of What You left in Me

Prologue – Ariane

I twirl in front of the mirror, and the skirt blooms around my legs like pale green water.

For a moment, I don’t look like a girl who still has algebra homework and chipped nail polish. I look older. Like I belong in this world of champagne and glitter.

The window is cracked open and summer drifts in a cocktail of lake air, freshly mowed grass, and a hint of mildew. Below, the lawn is already transformed into a scene straight out of a fairytale. White folding chairs line up like soldiers in neat rows. Silken ribbons flutter against the backs of identical chairs. A floral arch blots some of the gorgeous sunlight with shade. Beyond the scene, the surface of the lake shimmers in lazy ripples, calm and glassy. It’s a beautiful shade of blue and, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think it wasn’t real.

I tuck a loose curl behind my ear and lean closer to the mirror.

“Ugh!” I groan at my reflection.

No matter the occasion, my hair never listens—not to heated tools or a fistful of pins. It falls in dark waves anyway, the few rogue strands keep slipping free, hanging in rebellious little commas around my face.

I irately dab at my lip gloss again, even though Mom is going to tell me it’s too much, and then I do the thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do because it only proves that I’m nervous. I practice my smile. Not the big one with the dimple, because that looks like I’m trying too hard. I practice the smaller one. The polite one. The one fit for photographs.

Today will have a lot of photographs.

Across the hall, I hear footsteps, then the whoosh of a door opening. Right now, the house is like heartbeat: voices rise and fall; laughter skips down the staircase; someone calls for the florist because a ribbon went crooked; someone else whispers, “Five minutes to the processional,” like it’s a warning.

I tuck my hands together, so I don’t pick at the hem, and—after one last look at myself—I finally leave the room.

Mom’s door is open.

The light inside is softer than sunlight, like the lamps understand that this is a sacred hour and they should respect that. She is standing in front of her mirror, but she isn’t looking at herself. Instead, she’s looking past herself, out the window at the same view I’d been transfixed at. The lake, the white arch, and the aisle that will carry her into a new name.

“Don’t you look like summer,” she says, turning around the second she hears me enter. Her voice has that high, breathless edge to it. The one that appears when she’s anxious but trying to make me believe that she’s calm.

“You look…” I stop, because the word ‘perfect’ is so small for what she is.

The white gown is the color of sky washed with milk. It has a soft blue tint to it, which compliments her complexion perfectly. Pearls rest at her throat like clear bubbles that forgot to pop. Her hair is swept back into a chignon.

For a second, I see her the way the guests will: elegant, serene, and the kind of beautiful that makes you want to stand straighter.

But then she sighs, and I see her glassy eyes and there is my mother. Not a statue. Not a picture. Just Eleanor, trying to keep herself together.

Mom deserves this.

She finally looks happy.

She catches me staring and pretends to scold, “Stop memorizing me like a poem, Ari.”

“Can’t help it.” I grin and pick up her bouquet from the bed. White roses, pale pink hydrangeas, a twist of eucalyptus that smells fresh and green. I hold it out to her.

“Do I look like a bride?” she asks, and it’s only half-teasing.

“You look like someone who’s going to be late if we don’t go.”

We laugh. It’s a small sound, fragile and bright, but it’s ours. I press the bouquet into her hands, link my fingers with hers for exactly three seconds, squeeze, and then let go because there will be hell to pay if either of us ruin our makeup.

Downstairs, I pause at the threshold.

The setting sun is pushing at my eyelashes, and the world outside looks like the perfect shot for a postcard. The aisle is simple, yet beautiful. The chairs full of faces I barely know.

Somewhere to my left, someone whispers, “There she is,” and everybody turns.

I follow their eyes down the walk, past the urns with their climbing roses, past the mirror-lake, to where Richard stands beneath the arch.

He looks nervous, but it’s a different kind of nervous than Mom’s. His is unabashed, and he wears it with a softness. He keeps smoothing his lapels even though his suit is already immaculate.