29

Camila

My reflection looks nothing like me. Yes, it’s my face with the right color eyes, the familiar cupid’s bow mouth, but that’s where it ends. The woman staring at me in the mirror, with her hair wound up in an elegant braid with white flowers woven through and sparse rouge on her cheeks, is a stranger.

Rubbing my hands down the wedding dress that squeezes my middle, I let out a sigh. Get it together, Camila. This is you. You chose this dress for this day. My inner voice doesn’t help. I still feel like I’m out of my body, watching somebody else prepare for her wedding.

“Miss?” Ollie asks. “Do you like it? Should I add more blush or thicker eyeliner?”

“You did great,” I assure her gently.

“But … you barely have any makeup on.”

That was intentional on my part. I’ve never been one for pounds of foundation or exaggerated styles. I thought that if I looked more like my usual self, I might be able to handle this day better.

Looking at my reflection again, I wonder if I made the wrong ch