The whole truth

Trigger warning: Swearing

Molly stood up, tugging at her hemline. She had never been comfortable in this type of elaborate attire. Her sleek, black outfit might have been too provocative for this occasion. The form-fitting dress made her feel more claustrophobic than an overbooked aircraft. She blew her nose on toilet paper squares from the stall while approaching the vanity. Get it together, girl she muttered, as she scrubbed her shaking hands in the automatic sink. “You’re always so hard on yourself”, Tara stated, pulling a fresh pack of Kleenex from her purse. The faucet finally turned on after some graphic language and frantic hand motions.

Amidst gum wrappers and elastic hair ties, Molly retrieved a purple tube from the bottom of her handbag. Waterproof my ass, she thought to herself, as she struggled to untwist the cap. The little black brush felt alien on her damp eyelashes. Tara never needed to wear mascara, which made Molly jealous. She looked elegant as always, sporting a modest pantsuit and stunning kitten heels. “But this one’s important!” Molly moaned. She’d never been a confident public speaker, but her future depended on this speech. She’d been through too much to fuck it up now.

“It’s okay to be scared,” reassured Tara. She returned to rubbing the stress out of Molly’s shoulders with her thumbs. Molly turned towards her tired reflection in the mirror. Her breath fogged the glass as she scraped dark red lipstick off her front teeth. No amount of makeup could fix the deep purple below her eyes today. Tara took a lint roller to Molly’s dress, snatching up the stray husky hairs. “I’ll meet you in the hall," she said, struggling to slip through the heavy door.

Molly focused on the black veins spread across the countertops, flowing into the glimmering white marble. She inspected her Jet black hair, which was secured into a French twist. Her head throbbed as she gently adjusted the dozen bobby pins. She never wasted time fixing her hair on a normal day, usually tossing it up in a chaotic messy bun.

The oversized bathroom door boomed behind her as she entered the corridor, causing groups of bystanders to turn with curiosity. “Ignore them”, Tara said softly. Molly fixed her posture, pulling her shoulders back below her ears. If she couldn’t succeed at appearing confident, at least she’d have less back pain. Tara motioned to a set of wooden French doors, partway down the hallway. The door knob looked like it had seen better days, letting out a high-pitched “squeak” as it rotated. “You got this”, said Tara as she pulled Molly in for a hug. “I’ll see you soon”. Molly pulled her in closer. “Just do it, scared,” Tara whispered.

Molly stepped cautiously into the room, letting her eyes wander to the historic architecture. The building had been built in the 1800s, featuring vaulted ceilings and hand-carved columns. She circled the room slowly, analyzing the oil paintings on the walls. Three rows later, she found her seat. Her heart rate rose when a familiar face walked through the far entrance. Gavin adjusted the cuff links on his navy suit jacket. Unlike her, Mr. Price was always comfortable being the best dressed in the room. He knew he was good looking, and enjoyed the attention that came with it. He stopped near the door, greeting the guard with an exaggerated handshake.

Finding his table almost instantly, Gavin sat down next to an older gentleman who was nursing a cup of black coffee. He turned to assess the crowd, pausing midway to lock eyes with Molly. She felt her cheeks turn warm, as he narrowed his eyes slightly. He flashed a signature half smile that triggered butterflies in her stomach. It had been almost a year since she'd been Gavin's plus-one at the Greenwood Rescue Gala. She expected to encounter him here, but nothing could prepare her for his grin. She felt the sweat return to her palms and had no luck drying them on her oak chair. The effect his smile had on her wasn’t new, but she needed to concentrate.

People took their seats as Molly struggled to pop an Altoid in her mouth. She hoped the harsh peppermint would help reset her nervous system. She resumed her pep talk, reminding herself that she was a badass woman who could do hard things. She set her phone on silent. 8:04

A tall blonde woman introduced herself at the podium, a sign the dreadful event had started. The crowd was silent as she spoke, but Molly didn’t comprehend a word she said. All she could hear was her own escalated breathing as she tried to hold her composure. She set her gaze on a brass light fixture above the speaker. It reminded her of annual summer camps, playing trumpet in her High School Marching Band. Music always calmed her.

She froze as she heard “…call Molly Beckman to the podium”, from the microphone. Molly’s legs felt like they were made of concrete. Dozens of heads turned, waiting for her next move. She lifted her chin and fumbled out of her chair. Her moist feet slipped inside her new heels as she made her way down the center aisle. Just do it scared. Her stiff pumps clicked as they connected with the wooden stairs. She paused for a deep breath before approaching the microphone. In the front row, she saw Tara, taking notes per usual. She tapped her collarbone subtly, a sign to remind Molly to stand tall.

She glanced back to Gavin, still flaunting his stunning smile. All eyes were on her, as she remembered the traumas of 10th-grade creative writing. Molly’s chest tightened, as she felt the air flee from her lungs. She gripped the podium ledge, grounding herself. “Ms. Beckman”, a voice bellowed. “Please raise your right hand”, Molly followed his direction. “Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the Truth?”

“I do”