Work Text:
Lipstick. Powder. Perfume. Blink. Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Jaw clicked tight. Your reflection stares back at you, pale despite the makeup and tense despite the day. They best day of your life. Part three. You’ve been here before. Sat in the same seat with the same makeup artists. Hell, even married the same man. But this is different. More nerve-wracking somehow. People will see you this time. Pick you apart. People will know this time.
Stand up. Spine crack. Exhale. Your collarbones shimmer with highlighter, one shoulder exposed from your loosely tied robe. You pull it up and scowl. Fingers flex. Turn around. It’s time.
The dress hangs from the back of your closet door, staring you down. Taunting you. Ivory. Fitted. Lace. All of it waiting for you to crack. Crumble. Break. Three steps forward, one step back.
No? Yes? No? No.
Kirby and Allison and Monica and Cristal are in the room with you. Sitting on the bed and on chairs on the other side of the room. Each harbouring their own Bellini and emotion saved just for today. Pained. Exhausted. Nervous. Excited. Just as you expected. Scowl flips to pursed lips. Frowning leaves lines in your foundation.
Ready.
“I need to get into my dress,” you say, your voice on the edge of a quaver. Every inch of you is trembling. And not from excitement. The pull in your stomach and heaviness in your chest and the weight hanging over your head. Gooseflesh clings to you from top to toe like ivy.
Breathe in. Hold it. Keep it there. The fabric creeps up your skin, leaving flaming bursts of anxiety on your arms and legs and stomach. Stand straighter. Tighter. The zip glides halfway and stalls. Catches. Breathe in harder. Harder. Harder. It sticks.
Fists tight. Jaw clenched. Eyes burn. No.
Down. Up. Doesn’t stick. Weightless, for a moment, you lower your shoulders and unfurrow your eyebrows. Your forehead is creased. Sigh. Shake head. You can’t do this. You know you can’t do this but why would you admit that to yourself? It’s failed twice. Twice. And since when are you one for second chances? You’ve given him how many? Three. At least.
No.
Smile. Wider. Wider. It’s the best day of your life. Enjoy it. That’s an order. Not a suggestion.
He’s standing at the top of the aisle, giving himself a pep-talk. His mother is in the front row, stewing. Waiting for the reception to tell your guests what an imperfect pair you are. And she’d be right. You’ve already been married once; engaged twice. Why would it work out this time? Ever, for that matter?
Wider and wider still. You will never be happier than today. You will never experience happiness like this again. Except, perhaps for the birth of your children. Which you won’t have. Because he doesn’t want them. You compromised. You never compromise, only for him. Why? He’s done nothing to deserve it.
Sit down. Crease the dress. Swallow a sob. Your eyelashes are flecking with tears. Because you can’t do this. You know you shouldn’t marry him; marry anyone. You aren’t anyone’s wife. You’re you, and you only.
What happened to the you who answered to no man? Who put work above self, never mind love? Oh, of course, you fell in love. Three times, now. Got engaged to three different men and almost married two of them. Actually married one of them – the one you’d known for less than ten minutes. You’re a fool, Fallon Carrington. You can’t marry anyone. Not Liam. Not Michael. Not Jeff. No one could stand to marry you.
“Can I have a moment to myself? I just need to… take it all in.”
Murmurs of agreement. Your bedroom door opens, and your father stands outside, pacing slightly. As if he’s nervous. He’s not anxious because his little girl is about to get married. He’s nervous because he knows his little girl is about to ruin everything. It’s what she’s good at, after all. You are a master in the art of fucking things up. Royally. He doesn’t come inside. He doesn’t even want to look at you.
Slip out of the dress. Leave it on the floor. You have to leave. You have to leave. You have to leave. Now. Dress again; jeans and a blouse, flats. Go unnoticed.
Your en-suite it cold. Quiet. Delicious. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave.
You have to. Need to. It’s imperative that you leave. Run away before you make a mistake. Run, baby, run. Flee the place like it’s up in flames. Like it’s about to burn to the ground. Do it. Do it now. You need to.
But Liam. How could you ever leave him? you ask. You plead. You beg. As if you don’t know the answer. You could leave him easily. So, so easily. How easily did he leave you, all those times? At Steven’s wedding. At Carrington Atlantic. In Idaho. At the hospital. Over and over and over and over. He leaves, and he leaves, and he leaves. If you marry him, he’ll leave you eventually. Leaving you is a hobby of his. Might as well beat him to it, right? He can’t leave you if you leave him. Don’t let him leave you again.
Out of the bathroom you go, sneak into the hallway. Pulling pins from your hair as you go. The updo is ruined, your mascara is streaking. And you’re free. You’re free. You’re free. Down the stairs. Out the door. No one looks at you.
Fifteen minutes late.
The first car you lay eyes on is the car you choose. Blake’s Rolls Royce. Climb inside. Drive away. Run away. Gone.