The boutique Serena had dragged us to in downtown Port Camden was one of those shops that could only be entered with an appointment. Attendants swished around in all black and trays laden with flutes of champagne, somehow managing to look down their noses at anything in their path. Exactly the kind of place I liked to avoid back in New York.
Online shopping existed for areason.
Georgie caught my eyes in the mirror as Serena thoughtfully fluffed the puffy off-the-shoulder straps. I knew enough to tell that it was something out of a high fashion magazine, and wildly expensive—even for me.
“You didn’t like any of the dresses we sent you?” Georgie asked, fixing her hair as a sales associate sashayed past.
Serena hesitated before replying, “They were beautiful.”
I frowned. The subtext in her hesitation might as well have been as loud as actually saying it: Jesse’s parents didn’t approve.
“It’syourwedding, though, isn’t it?” I prodded, ignoring Georgie’s frantic look. “So I don’t really see the issue if you thought they werebeautiful.”
Serena’s graceful smile didn’t falter as she squeezed my shoulders and drifted back to the end table for her champagne. “Well, considering it’s mostly the Newhouse friends and family attending, I thought it was only fair that they get a vote about how things look.”
“You don’t have friends coming?” I questioned, arching an eyebrow at her through the mirror.
“Of course I do,” she replied, motioning to us. “I have you two, and Teddy—it was a little too sudden for Wes, but he sent me such a kind text.”
I pursed my lips and braced my hands on my hips. She tried to avoid it, like she always did. Serena devoted much of her time to worrying more about other peoples’ feelings rather than her own. I’d forgotten how infuriating it was as someone who cared abouther.
Jesse and Serena making a match of it suddenly made sense.
The thought twisted my stomach into all sorts of knots unrelated to the ones already formed from the dress trying to cut my organs in half.
“Can I get out of this?” I muttered, “I really don’t think it’sthedress.”
Serena sipped her champagne and languidly waved a set of French tips at me. “That’s all right—we still have a whole collection to get through for Georgie.”
Once I shooed the nosy attendant out of the changing room and wrenched the fabric from my body without causing any major damage to either of us, I swiped the thin sheen of sweat from my forehead and shrugged my oversized blazer back on. Stuffing myself in and out of couture-inspired gowns might as well have been an Olympic sport. Hopefully there was a medic handy for Georgie.
I silently praised the loose fabric of my trousers as I sank into the couch and gratefully accepted a flute of champagne from Serena. Eventually, it would make me even sleepier, but maybe the cool bite would keep me conscious for the next thirty minutes.
Georgie stumbled out of the changing room, yanking up a couple handfuls of silk fabric as she strode to the platform. I was pretty sure I heard an attendant or two pass away.
She beamed in the mirror and twirled to face us. “Ilovethis,” she breathed.
It was perfect for her. The thick layers of ruched silk tulle hugged her bodice and hips, flowing out mid-thigh with a knee-high slit. Some sort of scarf draped around her neck and poured down her back. I’d seen enough fashion week coverage to know that the fabric was more expensive than my most prized pair of shoes.
“I think it’s perfect,” Serena murmured, fluffing the hem at Georgie’s feet. “And it fits you like a glove.”
I knocked back a generous amount of champagne.
It took two more boutiques before I found the dress. The deep red gown hugged my frame, the silk folding off my shoulders and crossing my arms like a ribbon tied into a bow at my chest. A row of cinch clips at my waist and the particularly unforgiving lack of stretch made it nearly impossible to maneuver, but at least I couldsit. Without the knee-high slit at the back, I’d have to hop down the aisle or have the groomsmen carry me like Cleopatra.
Serena’s chin perched in her hand, expert eyes taking me in through the mirror. Her fingers deftly adjusted the fabric for a few moments before she breathed, “That dress wasmadefor you.”
I let out a sigh of relief—as much as I could, anyway—and hobbled down from the platform.
It couldn’t come off fast enough. Fallfest steadily approached like a runaway train, the wedding of my lovingly high-maintenance childhood friend loomed, I still had no idea what my next career steps were, and certain people seemed determined to derail me at every juncture.
Last night, sometime in between being kicked by Georgie and squished by Easton, I made a decision.
If dinner would make my father go away, then so be it. Avoiding him had become impossible—the garish balloon that lazily bobbed over the roofs on Main Street every so often proved that—and my mother refused to let me forget his presenceanytime I saw her. And, honestly, a tiny, miniscule part of me had grown a mild case of curiosity about my newfound sister.
One dinner could cure it all.
I was older and stronger, and I’d spent nearly half my life without a father. I had a bubbling, simmering sense of morbid excitement about the idea of sitting down and showing him just what he’d missed.
