Gianna was in full panic mode in her room.
Dresses were everywhere. On the bed, hanging off the chairs, one even laying hopelessly on the floor. She stood in front of the mirror in her underwear, holding up an emerald dress that looked like it belonged on a red carpet, not at some charity dinner.
"This one," she said, spinning towards me. "Or…how about this one? Or— no how about this golden one. Serena, help!"
I laughed and walked over. "You're acting like this is your wedding, not a fundraiser you run every year."
"It's important," she said, stepping into the dmerald dress. "People donate because they like me. If I look like trash, they won't give money."
"You could wear a trash bag and they will still donate. You're Gianna Vitale. People love you."
She tried to zip it up but the zipper stopped halfway. She sucked in her stomach. Still couldn't zip up. She let the breath out and the zipper slid back down.
Her face fell, like someone had died.
