Powerplay by Cher Carson Page A

counting down the days until they married the man of their dreams. In her case, as her wedding day drew closer, it felt like a noose tightening around her neck.
    Trace sighed. “Here comes the seamstress. Let her do her thing so we can all get the hell out of here.” 
    The matronly woman knelt down on her knees, working frantically with pins sticking out of her mouth and a measuring tape hanging around her neck. When she was finished with the hem, she stood behind Jen, her work-roughened hands drawing in the silk bodice. She smiled. “You’re one of the most beautiful brides I’ve seen in a long time, my dear. Your groom is a very lucky man.”
    Jen couldn’t hold back the flow of tears any longer as one escaped, slipping down her cheek. Mortified, she dipped her head and swiped her hand across her face.
    The lady squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry, it happens all the time. It’s a very emotional time for most brides. Just remember, your wedding lasts only one day, the marriage lasts a lifetime.”
    A lifetime with Kevin. Jenna felt a sharp pain in her chest, restricting her airway. She didn’t think she could do this.
    Trace cleared her throat, obviously sensing Jen’s distress. “She’ll be fine. She’s not feeling very well. I think she just needs to go home and take a nap.”
    Taking the hint, the woman quickly worked the bodice of the gown, nipping and tucking, as required. “This was the supposed to be the final fitting, but I think it needs a few more adjustments,” she said. “Could you come back next weekend to try it on again?”
    Jen nodded her head numbly. She would say anything, do anything, to get out of this gown. The first time she tried it on, six months ago, it felt so right. Now it just made her feel like a fraud setting out to deceive a few hundred of the people closest to her.
    “Okay, you’re all set,” the seamstress said, drawing back the curtain for her to enter the change room. “You go home and get plenty of rest. You wouldn’t want to be sick for your big day.”
    Her big day was starting to feel more like her sentencing day.
    She changed back into her clothes quickly, slipping into a snug pair of jeans, pulling her sweater over her head with little consideration for her hair. She hung the gown on the hanger, barely able to look at it as she rushed out of the change room. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she muttered, rushing past her friends.
    They followed her out onto the street, rushing to catch up when she all but sprinted to her Roadster.
    “You can’t drive in your condition, Jen,” Trace said, grabbing her keys. She pointed down the street. “Look, there’s a little café down the street. We’ll grab a sandwich and talk about it, okay?”   
    She nodded her head, turning in the direction of the café. They were right; she needed to face this. She couldn’t run away from it anymore, and the only people who could help her were the two women who had known her most of her life. They understood the dynamics of her relationship with both men; they would be her voice of reason.     
    Walking the short distance to the café, her friends remained quiet, as though they could sense that she needed time to collect herself before they began trying to restore order to the chaos that was her life.
    They spent a few moments claiming a table and placing their order before Callie finally said, “Okay, spill, we want details about what happened with Mark last night.”
    Instead of responding, Jenna fixed her attention on the small ceramic bowl containing the sugar and sweetener packets. She re-organized them according to brand and color. 
    Trace finally took the bowl away from her, setting it on an empty table behind them. “Honey, we know you’re going through a difficult time. We want to help if we can.”     
    Jenna propped her elbows on the table, covering her face with her hands. “I don’t think anyone can help me. That’s the problem.”
    Callie