Betty
The day of the gala felt like a joke.
I didn’t get out of bed. I didn’t shower. I didn’t even look at the dress bag hanging on my closet door. I wore the same oversized sweatshirt I’d been hiding in for days, curled up under a pile of blankets like they could shield me from the world.
My phone buzzed constantly—Kate, Marcus, even my dad checking in with awkward knocks. I ignored them all.
The last few days have shredded me.
I kept replaying that moment over and over. The screen. The text. Everyone's faces turning toward me like I was the punchline of a joke I'd never agreed to be part of.
And worst of all, the silence from Marcus. That pause. That single breath where he didn’t deny it.
How do you recover from that?
How do you make yourself believe you’re anything more than a project?
I stared at the ceiling. I told myself I wasn’t going. That nothing good ever came from trying. That girls like me didn’t get fairytales.
Kate’s text came in at 5:42 PM.
“Still not dressing up?”
I didn’t reply.
At 5:44 PM:
“Check your window. I sent you a surprise.”
Confused, I shuffled over and pulled back the curtain.
And my heart stopped.
He was standing there.
Marcus.
In a tuxedo.
On my front lawn.
The same boy who’d made me feel like everything and nothing all at once. The boy I told myself I hated. Who I told myself I’d never forgive.
He had one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a tiny white corsage like we were in a teen romance movie and not in the middle of whatever this mess was.
He looked up and saw me, and despite everything, he smiled.
I opened the window.
“You’re insane,” I called down.
He shrugged. “I’m not going unless you do.”
“You’ll miss the whole thing.”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “All night, if I have to.”
I closed the window.
I stood there in my room for a long moment, not moving, not thinking—just feeling. My heart was pounding so fast I thought I might actually pass out.
And then I turned.
The dress Kate made me buy, the one I was planning to return? I pulled it off the hanger.
It was a dark wine red, soft satin, ruched in just the right places. Fitted but not tight. It terrified me.
My fingers shook as I stepped into it.
I hadn’t done my makeup in days, but I grabbed the little kit Kate gave me. The concealer from e.l.f., the soft pink blush stick, the brown liner for a tiny wing—nothing fancy, just enough to try.
I ran a brush through my hair. Put on the tiny silver necklace my mom gave me when I was thirteen. Slipped on the block heels I hated buying because I thought they made me look clumsy.
And then I looked in the mirror.
I didn’t see a joke. Far from it.
I looked so good.
I walked downstairs slowly. Each step felt like a question—Are you sure? Can you handle this? What if he breaks you again?
But then I reached the last stair and looked up.
Marcus was standing just inside the door. My dad had let him in and then politely disappeared into the kitchen, pretending not to watch.
And when Marcus saw me, his entire expression changed.
His jaw actually dropped.
And then, like someone flipped a switch, his whole face lit up.
“Holy shit,” he said. “You’re… I mean—you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
My throat tightened. I felt tears sting the corners of my eyes.
But I didn’t cry.
I walked to him, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it.
I took his hand.