The garment bag hung on my closet door like a promise.
Inside was the dress Terry and I had picked out three months earlier, back when the biggest worry in my life was whether the shoes would give me blisters by the second slow song.
I was 18, in love, and stupid enough to think nothing bad ever happened to girls like me.
The garment bag hung on my closet door like a promise.
Terry and I had been together since sophomore year.
By senior spring, everyone in our little town assumed we’d walk out of prom with plastic crowns on our heads as prom king and queen.
***
My then-boyfriend texted me days before prom, teasing me about “practicing our dance routine” in his kitchen with his mom’s dish towel as a partner.
We’d walk out of prom with plastic crowns.
“I’ve done it enough times not to step on your toes, but if I do, it’s because my mom gave me bad training,” Terry wrote.
“I’ll trade you in for the dish towel,” I typed back.
***
After school the day before prom, my boyfriend pulled me into a long hug by his car.
“I gotta drive to the next town,” he said. “My suit’s finally ready. The tailor called this morning.”
“Don’t forget to send me a picture.”
“I’ve done it enough times not to step on your toes.”
Terry grinned that lopsided grin of his.
“You’ll see it tomorrow,” then he kissed me goodbye.
I stood in the parking lot watching his taillights disappear, not knowing it was the last time I’d ever see him standing on his own two feet.
***
At home, my mother, Sylvia, was already fussing in the kitchen when I walked in. She had that too-bright smile she used whenever she was working up to saying something.
It was the last time I’d ever see him.
“Big night tomorrow, honey. Is Terry’s suit ready, and is he picking you up here or meeting you there?”
“He’s actually gone to the town an hour away, the one with that tailor I mentioned. He’ll only come back sometime later. And I’m meeting him at the prom. Why?”
“No reason. Just planning.”
My father, Rick, would usually be sitting at the table, pretending to read the paper. But he hadn’t returned home yet.
My mother said he was working late.
“Is he picking you up here or meeting you there?”
Whenever I mentioned Terry’s name, I caught the look that passed between my parents. Quick. Practiced. Gone before I could name it.
“You two are so serious for 18,” my mother said, wiping a counter that was already clean. “You know your father, and I just want what’s best for your future.”
“Terry is my future, Mom.”
It occurred to me that if my father had been around, he would’ve set the paper down, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed it. Then he’d reach for his coffee instead.
I caught the look that passed between my parents.
That’s how my days went when I was around my parents.
“Of course, sweetheart,” my mother said. “We know.”
***
I went upstairs before she could say anything else.
My parents had always been polite to Terry. Polite the way you are to a waiter you don’t plan to tip well.
I told myself I was imagining things.
I went upstairs before she could say anything else.
***
In my room, I unzipped the garment bag halfway and touched the beaded straps. Somewhere across town, Terry was probably pulling into that tailor’s parking lot, singing along to whatever bad country song he loved that week.
My phone buzzed. It was a picture.
My boyfriend holding up a garment bag that held his suit, thumbs up, grinning like an idiot.
“I was actually hoping to see you in it,” I typed.
“I know, but I thought building the suspense would be better. I’m going to stay at a motel near the tailor’s shop. I’ll drive back tomorrow. See you at 7 p.m., babe.”
It was a picture.
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