“Men are visual creatures. Give your man a small teaser trailer of the upcoming blockbuster. Let him obsess over the trailer, imagine the blockbuster. You aren’t giving him the main event, you’re giving a teaser.”

“I don’t know, Petunia.” I hold up the dress. “This looks like the entire show.”

She shushes me. “I wore that dress to the opera in 1960 and got a marriage proposal that night.”

“The advertising executive? You didn’t marry him!” Gladiola says.

“All the same,” Petunia says. “You’ll be just like Cleopatra in this dress. Irresistible.”

I grimace. “Please don’t say that. Cleopatra married her brother. Then when he died, she married her other brother, then she ‘cheated’ on her brother with Caesar, most likely killed her brother, then hooked up with Mark Antony and then offed herself. She’s not a good example.” I look at the dress and its shimmery beads. “I’m not wearing this.”

“But Cleopatra ruled the world,” Petunia says.

“Uh huh.”

But I give in. They can do my hair and makeup and pick out my outfit. Gladiola owned a salon, and Petunia owned a boutique. Even at nearly eighty years old they know style. And since I only have a few more days left with Gavin before he leaves Romeo and possibly gets married, I need to make an impression.

I frown. I hear Will’s voice. “He’s getting married. Leave him alone. I won’t let you ruin his chance at happiness.”

Am I ruining his chance at happiness? Gavin picked his fiancée. He didn’t pick me. Fate did, I think. But he didn’t. Is free will, the choice of who you’ll marry, necessary for happiness? Would he rather his choice of a partner, even if she isn’t his soul mate, over me? Because he chose her. An arrow of guilt lodges in my chest. I sit still as Gladiola curls my hair into a French twist.

“What makes a happy marriage?” I ask.

Gladiola tugs on my hair and my eyes water.

Petunia hums as she brushes blush onto my cheeks. “Sex. A wise woman doesn’t let more than a few days pass without sex.”

Gladiola scowls at her sister.

“Fine. I’ll be serious.” She picks up the mascara and I can tell she’s about to impart fifty years’ worth of wisdom.

“Tell your man you love him, that you’re proud of him and grateful for all he does. Support him, treat him with love and he’ll do the same for you. Tell him what you want and need—be specific—don’t make him guess. Men aren’t good at guessing.”

“That’s a fact,” Wanda says.

Petunia pulls out a tube of lipstick and continues.