100 Yellow Doors

2:30 p.m.

For a moment, Iman was alone.

Her sisters, her mother, Wendy, were all somewhere else. It was only Iman and her reflection, her skin a warm brown against the V-necked, white-laced dress, her collarbones bare without a necklace, teardrop earrings dangling from her ears. She had seen the dress many times before. When she bought it, when it was in alteration, those few nights leading up to this day where her impulse overcame her and she had to put it on again—just to make sure, just to make sure.

But it was different this time. Maybe it was the addition of the earrings, of the floral hair piece that swept one side of her curls behind her ear. Maybe it was the chiffon veil that kissed her shoulders. Maybe, even, it was herself: the doe-eyed make up Hana had done on her, the nervous thud of her heart within her ribcage.

There was no time left to wait. It was happening, and it was happening now.

"Oh, Iman," said a voice—Annette's—as Iman slowly came round to her senses again. Iman turned, glimpsing her mother over her shoulder, and was surprised to find tears resting in Annette's eyes. "You look lovely."

"Like a princess," added Cam.

Even Hana was misty-eyed, though she was trying very hard to act like she wasn't. "Beautiful, Im."

Wendy rose from the loveseat in the corner, lending Iman an endearing smile. The bridesmaid dress suited her, as it suited Cam and Hana, too: a simple design, spaghetti-strapped, dark emerald silk. "Well?" said Wendy, fussing briefly with her side ponytail before looking up at Iman again. "You're ready, right?"

Iman held out both her hands, turning from the mirror. Without explanation, Annette took one hand, and Hana took the other; the five women made a circle amongst themselves, skirts brushing against the floor, the ocean like a gentle song in the distance.

"This is it, Immy," said Cam, beaming. "This is really it."

Iman nodded her head. She hadn't seen Beck all day—even though he made the argument that the whole "you can't see the bride before the wedding; it's bad luck" did not apply to a blind person, the girls had made sure Iman was kept away from him. She missed him: his gentle demeanor, his fidgety hands, the tightly-wound curls on his head.

A brief knock sounded. "Hey," said Julien from the other side of the door. "Can I come in now or is Cam going to karate-chop me again?"

Iman raised an eyebrow at her younger sister, but Cam just rolled her eyes and called: "I won't. Promise!"

The door squeaked open, and Julien edged inside. Iman exhaled, pulling away from the circle and turning to face him, stepping off the pedestal and into the heels resting beside it.

The two of them regarded each other in a somewhat awkward silence for a moment, Iman eyeing Julien's simple black tuxedo, his polished shoes, his gelled hair, Julien's eyes skipping from the dress to the veil and finally, to Iman's face.

They both coughed. "You look nice," they said at once.

Silence passed between them again, but it was interrupted shortly after by their laughter. With a shaking breath, Julien stepped forward, both his hands extended palm-up.

Iman folded her hands into his, searching his face for any doubt, unrest, but there was none. He was just smiling at her—his true, honest, smile, not sarcastic or sheepish, but honest—and she was smiling at him, and even if her heart was pounding, pounding, pounding, for that instant she was ever so calm.

Julien brushed her cheek with his thumb. "Ay, mi amor," he said, clicking his teeth. "All those crappy nights in San Diego and elsewhere, and look where we end up. I guess everything happens for a reason, right?"