My cousin’s smile grows until I’m afraid she might strain a muscle in her face. “You’d really let me pick?”

“Of course. It’s your wedding.” To myself I add, It’s not the dress that’s the hard part; it’s sticking around long enough to wear it.

The song playing over the bridal salon stereo changes, and I cringe at the familiar opening bars that I know by heart.

Ricky’s voice is going to haunt me forever. I curse my own stupidity every time I hear a song I wrote on the radio. My hard work added up to four albums in ten years, plus who knows how many songs he sold to other people.

Every time I insisted on getting some sort of credit, Ricky talked me out of it by convincing me his career would go to shit if I made it look like he was a poser who couldn’t write a song by himself.

Which was the truth.

When I finally put my foot down six months ago, when he started working on his fifth album, he pushed back the recording date and stopped asking for help. This was his game. Wait until there was no more time to extend the deadline, risk breach of contract, and then convince me I was going to ruin both our lives if I didn’t do my part like I promised.

But he never made it that far. And he managed to spend every penny anyway.

I pretend to flip through the racks, but mostly I’m blocking out the music, feeling like I can’t breathe right until the song finally changes.

When it does, to something with a terrible chorus and bridge, I think about all the notebooks of songs I’ve written that were never sold or recorded. I know I have skills. Ricky’s rock-god status cemented that without a doubt. But those songs aren’t worth a damn thing sitting where they are, and I’m fresh out of rock stars to sell them to. My other choice is to try to record demos myself . . . which I would never do. My singing voice is strictly for the shower. Besides, Ricky was the one with the great guitar skills. I just knew how to write songs that people loved.

“What about this one?” Cricket interrupts my train of thought when she holds up a bright orange dress that, with my black hair, would make everyone think of Halloween. “It’s called persimmon.”

When I offer complete silence in response, she laughs. “That was a test. I knew you would hate it, and now I also know what your no way in hell face looks like.”

A smile tugs at my lips. My cousin knows me well. “Touché.”

“At least I’m not making you wear a mushroom.” She points to a cluster of brown dresses. “Truffle and morel.”

“How about we skip the food colors?”

Cricket turns back to the rack and flips through hanger after hanger. “So that means no apricot, peach, cherry, apple, pear, or guava. Good Lord, what is the obsession with fruit?”