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Gavin's face darkened, his patience gone in an instant.
"Karen, how long are you going to keep this up? Marci just scratched your dress by accident, that's all."
"She has severe depression. Am I supposed to scold a sick girl over some ratty dress of yours?"
"Can't you show a little sense and drop that petty, penny-pinching attitude of yours?"
That was when Judith Whitney, Marcella's best friend, sidled up with her own snide little tone.
"Exactly, Karen. Is scheming all you know how to do, day and night?"
"Last month Marci liked that five-thousand-dollar gown you'd ordered. That was her praising your taste. But you had to make a scene, and you set off Marci's depression."
"Now Marci just wanted to borrow this ratty dress and try it on, and you want to squeeze thirty million out of her? Look at you, broke as you are. Have you ever even seen what thirty million looks like?"
Off to the side, Marcella dabbed at her eyes, the picture of hurt.
"Judy, stop. It's all my fault."
"I just thought, since Gavin's so amazing, it would embarrass him if my sister Karen showed up to her wedding looking shabby. I only wanted to help her try some styles..."
The words filled Gavin's eyes with tenderness for Marcella.
He turned and glared at me, hard.
"Karen, look how much Marci thinks about you!"
"And then look at yourself. Acting like some shrew!"
I couldn't be bothered to look at any of them again. I only wanted to get out of that suffocating room.
Just as I passed Marcella, her hand suddenly moved.
A sharp, stinging pain shot up my arm.
Before I could say anything, Marcella cried out.
"Ah! Karen! I'm so sorry, the scissors slipped, did I hurt you?"
Gavin's pupils shrank, and he took an instinctive step toward me, a flicker of concern crossing his face.
"Karen, are you all right..."
He didn't finish. Marcella went limp beside him and folded into his arms.
"Gavin... my head's spinning, I feel awful, I think my depression's flaring up again."
She clutched at his sleeve, refusing to let go.
That flash of worry Gavin had for me was gone, replaced at once by Marcella.
He swept her up and stared anxiously at her face.
"Marci! Marci, what's wrong? Don't scare me!"
Then he turned his head and sighed at me, impatient.
"Karen, yes, Marci dropped the scissors by accident and cut you, but you set her off again."
"Your arm doesn't look that bad. Go to a pharmacy nearby, buy a bandage to stop the bleeding, and grab some antibiotics while you're at it. You'll be fine. I have to get Marci to the hospital right now! If anything happens to her, our wedding will have to be pushed past Valentine's Day..."
And with that, without another glance at my bleeding arm, he carried Marcella straight out of the bridal shop.
I stood there, quiet, watching the blood run down my arm.
Seven years, and my heart was finally dead.
Last winter, I was burning with fever, and the moment I opened my eyes I wanted to throw up.
I forced myself to call Gavin and asked him to come home and buy me medicine.
When he finally got back, he said he'd been too busy with a client and forgot, and why couldn't I just order delivery myself, why was I being so dramatic.
Later I found out the so-called client was Marcella, keeping her company after a breakup.
Last week I worked late into the night, and in the pouring rain I couldn't get a car.
He said his car was in for servicing and told me to figure it out myself.
Lucky for me, a kind old man on a delivery trike drove me home.
The next day Marcella gleefully told me that on that rainy night, after work, Gavin had driven over and watched drama serials with her until dawn.
I scrimped and saved, never letting myself buy a single piece of clothing over five hundred dollars, putting every cent away to back his startup.
And he used the money I'd invested to buy Marcella an entire counter's worth of that season's luxury pieces.
Every single time, he shut me up with the same line: "Marci has depression, cut her some slack."
And every single time, I chose to forgive, because I couldn't bear to throw away those seven years.
But this time, it really was over.
