She has some new foundation and applies it with a heavy hand, concealing flaws I didn’t know I had.
At least this way, they won’t see it when I blush.
Which I inevitably will.
She sculpts and contours my face, fashioning cheekbones from hills. My eyes are artificially widened, the subtle smoky eye she’s gone for deepening their natural green.
By the time she’s finished, I barely recognize myself.
But I do look like the Hattie Sage my mom would love, the girl with money and confidence overflowing.
“See?” Margot coos, blowing on her brush like it’s a smoking gun. “Stunning!”
I look like a mermaid with arched brows and tinted lips, big eyes, and highlights that make me sparkle.
The attendant brings the dress back while we make more adjustments, and with Margot’s help, I stuff myself into it.
Margot then does her own makeup, spending a lot less time on her own face (and still looking incredible), and then sliding into her own black dress far more gracefully.
Compared to me, she looks radiant, yet subdued.
The wick beside the flame.
Howweirdwhen it’s always been the opposite.
Again, I can’t do this.
“Just have fun. You’ve got this,” Margot says brightly. As if I’m not seconds from vomiting all over this very fancy tiled floor.
“I don’t have anything.”
Her phone chirps. “The limo’s here. Are you ready?”
Hell no.
I’m wearing heels that threaten to break my ankle with every step. The dress reflects the light and my thigh is visible.
Despite the expensive perfume, I’m positive someone will still smell my sweat under it.
“Come on, let’s go dazzle,” she says as she leads me through the shop, hips swaying with every movement.
I try to inhale some courage as we emerge outside and find a limo pulled up beside the sidewalk. A white limo with tinted windows and a crisply dressed driver standing by the door, ready to help us inside.
“Keep smiling. Focus on that. Look pretty, but that won’t take much effort now,” Margot whispers as we slide inside the car.
“Easy for you to say!” I whisper back.
She smiles.
“Don’t worry, Hatgirl. I’ll handle the condolences. I’ll also bail you out if anyone gets too nosy. Whatever you do, don’t let my idiot brother ruin a good time.”
There’sa ring on my finger and it’s weirding me out.
It isn’t a cookie-cutter masterpiece or dripping in diamonds, which shocks me to my core. The piece he picked out, it’s actually tasteful.
All brilliant etched gold with a halo of smaller diamonds around a beautiful pine-green tourmaline rock, the state gemstone. Elegant, intricate, and yes, expensive, but not some outrageous antique thing which belonged to a Tsarsina once. Or peppered with so many diamonds it weighs down my hand.
Of course, he didn’t hand it over in person.
