The seamstresses sew my handmade, lace-stitched dress in record time. It’s beautiful and everything I would ever want. Every time I have a fitting, Donato’s words fly into my head. “Let’s elope. We’ll go to Vegas tonight.” During several weak moments, I almost call him and tell him to come get me. In each instance I consider it, my brothers or Papà appear as if they know what I’m thinking.
 
The only time I’m able to talk to him is at night. He only calls at three or four a.m., when he gets home from partying. The pictures on his social media feed show him doing the same thing as always. He’s at different clubs, and there are always girls around. I wonder if he’s already replaced me. Then he’ll call, slurring his words, telling me I’m not marrying Killian.
 
 
The morning of the rehearsal dinner comes, and I haven’t heard from him. All night, I wait up, wanting to hear his voice. Instead, I scroll my social media feed. Some girl took a selfie of her kissing Donato at the club. She tagged him and wrote, #takinghimhometonight.
 
A lump grows in my throat. Would he really do that to me so soon? Did we technically even break up?
 
Another post pops up. Some girl on Killian’s social media feed named Molly posts a picture of him and a bunch of other men. It’s after three in the morning. It appears like they’re in a bar and wasted. Two blondes, a girl with magenta hair, several with darker hair, and a redhead all circle him. He has his arm around the redhead’s waist, and she’s leaning into his ear, smiling, with her hand in his hair.
 
The caption in the photo reads: Bachelor party out of control. Some people need to go to bed.
 
I’m going to kill him.