“Why Pete’s mother’s dress? Why not your own mother’s? Or a dress you chose?”
“Rita wanted me to wear it,” Claire says simply. “All my sisters-in-law did before me.”
Despite walking past that photo every day, it’s been years since Claire thought about it in such detail. She’d never been one to dream about her future wedding day as a little girl, so when Pete and his mother started overriding her decisions, she’d just accepted it. It wasn’t worth the argument. Her own mother put up a bit of a fuss, but Rita’s pure force of personality put a stop to that quickly.
She can still remember the shame of not fitting into the dress. Rita had pulled and tugged at the zipper until it almost broke between Claire’s shoulders. She’d felt like a painting stuffed into too small a frame, all long limbs and protrusions ruining a family heirloom fitted for a more normal body than her own as Rita and Pete tried to trim her edges away.
Jackie looks closer at the photo. “Was Pete standing on a box? I had the idea that you were taller than him.”
Claire can feel her cheeks heating up. Pete has never taken well to that being pointed out, and Claire has yet another reason to be glad he isn’t here. “I wore ballet flats. And stooped a bit. Pete and Rita didn’t want him to look short for the pictures.”
“They had a lot of requests, didn’t they?” Jackie says. There’s something sharp in her tone that Claire can just imagine Pete bristling at.
“It was easier to let them plan it.”
“Did you have a nice honeymoon, at least?”
“Pete doesn’t like to travel,” Claire says, barely able to look Jackie in the face to see the pity she’s sure is written across her features.
After a brief pause, Jackie takes a step towards the closest door. “Is this bedroom yours?”
“Oh, um—Yes. Did you want to—?” Claire says, but Jackie is already ducking inside.
Jackie looks around the bedroom with an interest that Claire can’t understand. She runs a hand over the foot of the bed as she glides past, the pristine folding of the duvet wrinkling in a line under her fingers, and she stands at the window to look down into her own backyard in the very place Claire peeped from. Seeing Jackie there makes her feel antsy.
Finally, Jackie comes to the closet, still open after Pete’s dressing this morning. She moves Pete’s things aside to thumbpast Claire’s clothes, drab skirt after drab skirt, taking in the breadth of Claire’s stiff handmade dresses.
“I can’t imagine how frumpy this must feel compared to your closet,” Claire says, shifting from foot to foot. “I mean, look at what you’re wearing today. You could be on a runway.”
“You’ve said that kind of thing several times now,” Jackie says suddenly.
Claire blinks. She does remember saying something of the sort, when they first met. She’s only surprised that Jackie remembers, too. “Have I?”
Jackie lets the last skirt fall back into line, turning on her heel and regarding Claire carefully. Claire tries very, very hard not to be rude and stare at the bare skin of her collar.
“Do you remember what I said about being kind to yourself?” Jackie says, one perfect brow arched.
“It’s less an unkindness and more an objective fact,” Claire counters.
Jackie folds her arms. “Do your clothes bother you? Do youfeelfrumpy?”
Claire sinks down to sit at the end of the bed. She still hasn’t gotten used to this aspect of Jackie’s personality—the blunt questions, and the seemingly genuine interest in Claire’s answers. The intensity. Jackie is looking at her as if she expects a real answer, and inexplicably Claire wants to give it.
“I think so,” Claire says. “Frumpy and…and plain.”
“Why not buy some new clothes?”
“Nothing ever fits me right,” Claire says. There’s a thread loose near the hem of her skirt—she pulls at it, even though it means more work in the mending later. “I’m too gangly, I don’t fill anything out properly. I’ve been that way since I was a child.”
“There are styles that would suit you,” Jackie says. “You say I could be on a runway, but you realize that runway models haveyourbody type?”
Claire scoffs. “I look nothing like them. And besides, Pete doesn’t like modern styles. There’s no point in spending money to pretty me up, Jackie. It’s just lipstick on a pig.”
“Lipstick on a—Claire, that’s absurd,” Jackie says. The bed dips just to Claire’s right, and she can feel Jackie’s shoulder touching her own. “Having different measurements than a department-store mannequin doesn’t mean you aren’t gorgeous in your own right.”
Gorgeous. A word Claire has never heard in reference to herself, and one she has a great deal of trouble believing.
Claire recalls Jackie’s word from last week. She called Claire handsome. Claire has never been able to believe anyone—Pete, her own parents,anyone—who called her pretty, but something about the word Jackie used then has stuck with her.
