Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“Dio mio! Suck it in, Elena,” Mamá snaps, anchoring her elbow to my
hip as she pulls. “You just got fitted for this gown two weeks ago, how is it
possible you’ve gained this much weight already?”
Heat floods my cheeks at her question, shame slicing through my skin
like the dull edge of a blade. “It’s only a couple of pounds,” I say, trying to
obey anyway by inhaling as deep as I can.
“Probably just stress, or water,” my aunt, Anotella, says from where she’s
perched on the edge of the bed, gnawing at a chocolate-covered strawberry
from the lunch platter we had delivered. “Or all that time she spends with her
nose buried in a book.”
“Or she’s giving up. Kids these days don’t go through honeymoon phases
anymore.” Nonna, my paternal grandmother, reenters the room just in time, a
bright blue gift box in hand.
“Explain, Frankie.”
Nonna shrugs. “Back in my day, a woman waited at least a few years
before letting herself go. Now, they treat keeping in shape like an option, and
then wonder why half the country ends up divorced.”
Humming, Mamá gives a final tug, stealing the breath from my lungs.
Stepping back, she brushes a strand of dark hair from her face, huffing with
finality. “There. Good thing we went with the lace ties and not a zipper.”
Face flushing, I glance down at myself in the sleeved gown—the smooth,
flat expanse of my stomach, the excessive cleavage that I know is hidden
beneath the conservative dress because Ariana insisted I wear it.
‘This is the first time Mateo’s seeing you naked,’ she’d said, beaming at
me from the lingerie section of the bridal shop. ‘Make him eat his heart out.’
In truth, the only person I’m interested in inspiring something like
jealousy within most likely won’t even show up for the ceremony.
Not that he’d see what’s underneath the dress, anyway. Not again.
Crossing my arms over my breasts, I spin away from my reflection,
embarrassment making my stomach cramp. Perspiration slicks down my
spine and along my hairline, and I busy myself with checking the seating
chart, making sure every guest is accounted for.
Nonna walks over, licking the pad of her thumb and rubbing it across my
cheekbone. “Anotella, get your makeup bag. We’re going to need to keep it
nearby if she keeps sweating it off.”
My aunt hurries from the room, bringing the main hall of the de Luca
estate into view for the briefest moment. Catering staff bustles by as the door