Sabrina

Today I will get rid of the albatross.

I will extradite it from my life and make some moolah to boot.

I gaze up at the sign on the glass door for the consignment shop in the West Village. This shop has the highest ratings on Yelp for its offers on never-been-used items. The sign Once More is etched in calligraphy on the glass.

I square my shoulders, run a hand over my braid, and turn to my best friend, Courtney. I give her a crisp nod. “Today’s the day.”

She pumps a fist and utters a quiet but victorious yes.

“Try not to get too excited,” I tease.

“I can’t help myself. I’ve been waiting for this moment for, oh, the last eight months and three days.”

“Some things take time,” I acknowledge, as a soft summer breeze blows by. I run a hand over my leopard-print skirt, which hits several inches above the knee. Like a leopard, I’m tough, and I’m fierce. That’s what I tell myself, at least. Surely leopards give themselves pep talks too. “But when you’re ready you’re ready.”

She squeezes my arm. “And you’re ready. You’re so ready.”

I fashion my hand into a fist. “We’ll seal it with a vow.” I cringe at my last word, then I shake it off. A vow between friends is different. “No matter what, today is the last day we see that dress.”

Courtney squeaks, knocking her fist with mine. “Nothing you say could make me happier. Well, you dating again could.”

I scoff. “One step at a time.”

“I know, but the prospect of it makes me want to jump up and down and set you up with all the hot, sexy single men I know.”

I arch a brow. “The men you know are hot?”

Laughing, she waggles her hand like a seesaw. “That’s debatable. Maybe only a few are hot.”

“Let’s deal with the dress first.”

I reach for the door handle and pretend I’m heading into an interview, dealing with a CEO who’s been trying to stonewall me or with a biz-dev guy who doesn’t want to give up the goods for an article.

When I open the door, bells chime.

They sound like wedding bells.

Damn it.

With a hand on my back, Courtney gently but ever-so-firmly pushes me over the threshold. Not exactly the threshold I thought I’d be crossing eight months ago.

A cute teenager with ringlet curls and combat boots rushes over to us. “Hi, there! Can I help you?”

I look her square in the eye, saying words out loud that were once far too painful. “I’m Sabrina. I have a wedding dress I never wore. I dropped off the unused dress this morning and was told that Sasha would appraise and have a price for me this afternoon.”

The teen offers a sympathetic smile. “It’s all for the best,” she says, and I wonder how often she says that and if she means it. I wonder what questions she asks the other once-upon-a-time brides who never were.

I wonder if they’re anything like the questions this dress has asked me every day for the last eight months and three days.

Would you like to turn me into drapes?

Would you prefer to slash me with a knife?

Would you like to sell me to the highest bidder on eBay?

“It’s completely for the best,” Courtney cuts in. “And I’m sure Sasha can find it a good home.”

“Sasha knows everything about dresses.” The teenager flashes a big smile. “Let me go find her. Feel free to look around. I should be back in a couple minutes. Also, love your boots,” she says to me, and I look down and realize we’re wearing the same style.

Boots, short patterned skirts I made myself, and solid tops. My uniform when I’m not working.

I wear my uniform most of the time these days.

We wander to a shelf full of vintage pots and pans in army green and lemon yellow. They’re fifties kitschy and not my style on account of the fact that I have a hate-hate relationship with the kitchen. The oven detests me as much as I despise cooking. I swear, sometimes I think the stove plots my death since it overreacts every time I try to cook rice. What other explanation is there for the way the pot bubbles over?

I run my finger over the handle of a pot. “Unused,” I say, and the word tastes vile. “That’s the worst kind of adjective to assign to a wedding dress. Especially one like mine. No wonder I couldn’t sell it at the other two shops we tried.”

Courtney gives me a skeptical stare. “You tried shops that don’t carry wedding dresses.”

“Be that as it may, I don’t know if anyone wants a wedding dress that was never worn.”

“Of course someone does, and that’s why we’re here. This store specializes in reselling dresses, among other things. And just think, your dress will soon go to some other bride who’ll give it a good home,” Courtney says, ever the optimist.

The dress is the last vestige of my almost nuptials.

I’d returned all the plates and mixers, as well as the Keurigs (Ray registered for three coffee makers? Was he going to set up an underground Keurig ring?) and the two pasta makers (show me anyone besides a cook on the Food Network who even knows how to operate one of those contraptions). I sold the ring recently, and thank God my ex-fiancé had a mildly decent salary, because that little stone will help pay some bills for the next few months.

Which is a good thing, since I lost my job last week.

Yeah, that only sucked a little bit.

But it wasn’t my fault.

I take some solace in the fact that the newspaper where I’d worked for the last six years cut half its reporting staff, so it wasn’t personal.

Courtney wanders past the pots to a collection of vintage glasses, the kind with old-fashioned sayings sold at roadside hotels out on Route 66.

“You really think I should sell the dress?” I ask. “I’m not that bad off for money.” I force a positive attitude not just into my tone but into my entire musculoskeletal system, as well as the circulatory one too. “Maybe I could turn it into a cute little retro dress?”

She stares at me, one hand poised over an old-fashioned glass that says Sleepy bear lives here. The daggers in her blue eyes tell me a retro dress is an unacceptable answer. “No. You’re not going to wear it again as a cute little dress. That’s bad juju.”

I arch a skeptical brow. “Wait. You’re a venture capitalist and you believe in juju? Do you believe in voodoo too?”

She scoffs. “Please. No. Just juju. And we are going to turn your juju around. Also, once you get rid of the dress, you can date again,” she says, bright and cheery, like she’s dangling gummy bears before a child in the woods. Follow the trail of candy now. Come a little closer. They’re so very tasty. “You could even consider answering some of the knocks or pings or pokes you get online.”

I shudder. “No way. I met Ray online. Not going there again.”

“Be that as it may, I bet a date or two would take your mind off the whole work situation. Let’s kill two birds with one stone. Come to the masquerade gala my firm is sponsoring. It’s a charity fundraiser and a great way to get you out in the world of the living again.”

“It’s not as if I’ve been sulking. Work did keep me busy,” I say, because I didn’t go full hermit when Ray ditched me at the altar. More like full office, burying myself in story after story, in investigative piece after feature piece after news article. I took it all on, hungry for every single distraction.

Now I have none.

“Let’s find you more work.” Courtney waggles her blond brows and says my new favorite word. “You can network.”

My ears prick. “Network? Don’t get me excited.”

“It turns you on, doesn’t it?”

I laugh. “Yes, the prospect of paying my bills is quite arousing.”

She presses her hands together in a plea. “Come with me to the party. A ton of tech publications will be there.”

Before I can answer, the sound of heels clicking across the floor with purpose greets my ears. A voice shrilly shouts, “No.”

My spine straightens.

“You.”

A chill runs over my skin.

“Go.”

I spin around to find a woman with jet-black hair, a gypsy shirt, and bangles up one arm. “You with your French braid and the barrettes in your hair.”

I point at myself—who, me?—but there’s no one else she could be referring to.

“You brought that cursed dress into my store this morning,” she says, her voice wobbling, as she covers most of her mouth with her hand. My dress is draped over her other arm. She must be Sasha.

“Are you okay?” I ask, because . . . she reeks of Crazy with a capital, bolded, and underlined C.

Sasha raises her other arm, the one with my dress in its garment bag draped over it, and brandishes a jagged pink fingernail. “Today alone, I broke a nail.” She turns her wrist in my direction. It’s covered in Band-Aids. “And my cactus tried to kill me.”

“You have a homicidal plant?”

Note to self: murderous plants might be an interesting feature story for a consumer magazine. A warning sort of piece. Wait, that’s more Dateline.

Sasha drops her hand from her mouth, baring her teeth.

I flinch.

Her front tooth is chipped. She points to it. “This,” she hisses. “This is your dress’s fault. I cracked a tooth.”

“On the dress?”

“On a walnut,” she says righteously. “But I eat walnuts every day and today a nut attacks my tooth. How else do you explain that? Coincidence? I think not. Your dress swirls with negative energy.”

No kidding. I swirl with negative energy. I’m surprised the store hasn’t swallowed us into a sinkhole.

Still, I’m not letting my dress take the fall for a broken chopper. “I don’t think it’s the fault of the dress,” I say, trying to reason with her.

Sasha thrusts her arm at me, pointing to the door. “Take it back, and don’t come here again. I can’t sell it to another bride. I couldn’t live with myself if something horrid happened because of that evil dress. Imagine some unlucky woman struck dead by lightning on her wedding night! And in her groom’s arms.”

I give Sasha a look. “Okay, let’s not be so dramatic. When was the last time a bride was hit by lightning on her wedding day? Just say you don’t want the dress. I get it.”

I grab the dress from her, and she recoils as if it’s burned her.

“You need a dress exorcism,” she says. “You need a ghost hunter to cleanse your dress of evil spirits.”

I wave her off. “I’m sure you have a cousin who’ll perform such a service for $159.99.”

Sasha shrugs. “I do. I come from a long line of ghost hunters.”

“Okay, I’m going. I’ll get my evil dress out of your store,” I say, turning my tone spooky before we get the hell out of Once More, land of the Looney Tunes shop owner.

Out on the sidewalk, fumes of frustration roll off me. “Can you believe that? Can you freaking believe that?”

Courtney frowns. “I’m sorry, sweets. I had no idea she was one of those dresses are cursed people.”

“Is that a thing now? To believe dresses are cursed? Maybe I’m cursed. No wedding, no job—maybe I’ll go home and find a crazy rabbit has tunneled through my place and my cousin is kicking me out of the last rent-controlled apartment in all of Manhattan.” I heave a sigh of irritation so gigantic it stretches to Brooklyn. “I can’t believe I can’t sell this freaking dress.”

“We can find another shop.”

I shake my head. “Nope. I made a promise to be done with this dress. If this dress is cursed, I’m not going to bring that kind of bad luck on another bride.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

The wheels turn so quickly in my head, they’re a blur.

But the answer is clear. So clear I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.

I don’t need to sell this dress. I need to sacrifice it.

A wicked grin forms on my face as I stand on Christopher Street in the Village, New Yorkers rushing past me and barking into phones, hailing cabs, and ordering Ubers.

“You want me to go to your costume party?”

“Of course I do,” she says, excitement etched in her eyes.

“I’ll be there.”

When I reach my apartment, I grab my scissors because I have the perfect idea for a costume.