So I lock my jaw shut, will away the slow churning sensation in my gut, and refresh my makeup for the third time since lunch. No matter what products I use, they tend to melt off my face within an hour, and it’s always worse when the air is as hot and humid as it is today. Every makeup artist I’ve worked with has pointed this out. That, and the “lack of real estate” around my eyelids, and the sallowness of my complexion, and the thinness of my lips.

Not that it’s an issue anymore, I remind myself, feeling a pang behind my sternum. It’s another reason why I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself at the wedding, but there’s no way I’m avoiding my fate now.

We’re running half an hour late by the time my mom pulls into the crowded parking lot. I yank open the door and jump out onto the pavement in my stilettos, then smooth my dress out over my knees, ready to bolt into the hotel—

Except Mom pauses on her way to the front steps, scrutinizing me with her hand on her hip, her mouth pursed. I’ve never seen her in court before, but I imagine this is how she appears before her clients. Focused, serious, and slightly frightening. “You look pretty,” she says.

I release an internal sigh of relief. It doesn’t matter how often I hear it—I still want the confirmation that I can be beautiful. Crave it, chase it, like an adrenaline junkie seeking their next high. If too much time passes without getting some kind of positive feedback about my appearance, I imagine myself shriveling away, all the work I’ve put into my face and my body gone to waste. “Thanks,” I tell her. “That’s very nice—”

“It’s not meant to be nice. Why are you so put together?” she demands. “You’re going to upstage your cousin.”

“I’m not trying to upstage anyone.” And I’m really not. My goal is never to look better than other people—it’s just about making sure that I don’t look bad. Still, I tug the bottom of my dress even farther down. It’s a fairly straightforward navy piece, with a modest collar and basic lace design on the side. A model scout once told me in passing that darker tones suit me better, and I haven’t worn anything else since.

“Maybe tie your hair up,” she suggests.

“Fine.” I attempt to follow her advice, scraping my hair back with my nails. “Is the ponytail better? I mean, well, worse?”

My mom pulls my dad over onto the sidewalk. “What do you think? Does she look uglier?” she asks hopefully.

“Our daughter is perfect. She could never be ugly, no matter what,” my dad says, which is both really moving and unhelpful.