100 Yellow Doors

november 27th, 2019, 12:46 p.m.

Though it was the first day of Iman's Thanksgiving break and all she truly wanted to be doing was nothing, Hana had set up this appointment at one of the premier bridal shops in town a month ago—and nothing Iman or anyone else said could convince Hana to reschedule. If it were up to her, Iman kept thinking, she would be gone with Beck already, driving up to Newark, far enough away from DC, far enough away from Julien's perpetually stinging absence. She could practically see it: car radio cranked loud, her feet on the dash, Beck humming along to the melody as he drove.

"Miss Patel?"

Iman sighed, checking her watch. But that car ride was at least another three hours away. Beck had to be at work, and Iman had to be here, so any lofty ideas of quick getaways were effectively extinguished.

"How does that fit?"

Iman lifted her eyes to the mirror. The dress was lace-sleeved, a sweetheart neckline, a sweeping chiffon skirt and a long train to match. It was glittery and white and fluffy, all in a glaring sort of way that almost made Iman feel overdressed. Iman frowned at her reflection, messing at the curls of her hair with restless hands. "It's fine," she said.

The attendant, taking a few pins from between her teeth, stepped back with one eyebrow risen. "You don't seem too happy."

Iman shrugged, glancing at her over her shoulder. "My mom and my sisters will want to see it, anyway."
"But—"

Iman shook her head, already edging out of the fitting room and down the hall. She knew how this worked. She put on a dress, she waltzed out and did a twirl or two until Hana and the others made their judgments, and then she came back and put on another one. It was tedious, made more so by the fact that not one dress seemed to be the one yet—everything was either too much or too little, too tight or too loose. It was as if the white fabric blurred Iman's vision; enough times standing before the mirror, and she no longer recognized her reflection.

Iman rounded the corner, where Cam, Hana, and Annette Patel all sat huddled close to each other on the waiting room's couch. Iman had wanted to invite Beck's younger sister, Wendy, but her distance from DC combined with a basketball practice she had scheduled conflicted.

There was no buffer, in other words, to keep Hana from losing her mind over every single detail.

As Iman entered, Hana sat up with a gasp. Her heat-straightened hair was slightly frizzed—there was a consistent rainstorm outside, gray and tumultuous—and every few moments her fingers mindlessly flitted up to fix the strands."Immy. You look stunning."

Iman grimaced, tilting her head. "I do?"

"Beck would love this one!" Cam added with an exuberant nod. "No, really. If he saw you coming down the aisle in this I'm sure he'd cry like a baby."

Iman grimaced more. Beck was many things, but he was not much of a crier. "I can't really imagine that."

"Well you don't have to. Because it's gonna happen."

"Camelia," said Annette, in a way only a mother could do: fond but admonishing all at once. "Don't you think we should ask Im how she feels about it?"

Hana opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by a sideways glance from their mother.

Iman sighed, turning to face the mirror, her back to her family. She ran her fingers along the bodice, nails catching against the finely-detailed sequins and floral designs, smoothed her hand down the bountiful skirt. Would Beck cry if he saw her in this? Would she want him to?

In the mirror's reflection, Iman watched her mother rise from her seat. The attendant handed Annette the veil, and with a reverent silence Iman's mother raked her daughter's hair back with gentle fingers and settled the veil within the curls.