“Just for that, I’m staying in here another twenty minutes,” I called back.
I was lying. I knew my best friend, and she really would barge in here with her three other friends even if I was sitting on the toilet for its intended purpose.
With a deep breath, I exited the bathroom into a room full of twenty-somethings all wearing their Saturday-night-on-The-Strip best—that is, dresses that were either far too tight, far too short, or far too both.
Every single one of them squealed.
“You look like a literal sex goddess.” Megan grabbed my hand and spun me around in front of the mirrors covering the closets. “Girls, doesn’t she look like sin incarnate?”
Compared to the other bridesmaids’ attire, the dress was almost conservative, a silk halter that tied around my neck with a whisper-thin strap, then flowed down to my knees. The color, a muted emerald that matched my eyes, was practically sepia-toned next to their Barbie-neon pinks, blues, and reds.
Then I took a step, revealing the slit that just barely revealed the shadow of my hip bone. And immediately stepped back when all four women watching me whistled like cartoon dogs.
“Iknewyou’d fill that shit out.” Megan turned to the bridesmaid named Madison. Or Reagan. Or was that one Kennedy? They were all named after presidents, but I kept mixing them up. “Doesn’t she look incredible, Maddie? I can’t believe you’re actually wearing it.”
“I can’t believe I can’t wear underwear with it.” I pulled at the skirt, wishing I could pin the sliced fabric closed. Dosomethingto cover up. “Megs, this is indecent.”
“Correction: it’s hot as fuck. But don’t pull on the silk; it’ll wrinkle.” Megan came to stand next to me, adjusting her own much shorter and yet somehow more reasonable white and silver dress, topped with a tiara and a sash that said “I’m the Bride” in big glittery letters. In case anyone couldn’t tell. “You’re supposed to feel dangerous. Sexy. Like someone who doesn’t spend every waking moment worrying about abandoned dissertations, profit margins, or wool percentages.”
I sighed. My friend definitely had me pegged. Two years ago, I’d put my dissertation on archaic Greek archaeology aside to take care of Mom when she got sick again. The cancer stole her away, but I was determined not to let it take away her store too.
Now, the woman in the mirror was a far cry from the rumpled grad student or the harried shopkeeper. My brownhair fell in waves instead of being tossed into its usual practical bun, arranged loosely over one shoulder like one of the statues I’d seen in Athens. My eyes looked bigger, brighter, rimmed with black, my lips were lush, full, and painted, and the simple gold jewelry I always wore somehow brought out the sun-kissed tones in my skin more than it usually did.
And then there was the dress. All together, I looked like… Not Laney Fisher.
Whoever she was, she made me nervous.
Well, it was just for one night. And it seemed to be making my best friend happy.
“Come on, girls.” Megan grabbed my hand. “It’s our last night in Vegas, and we’re going to get Laney laid.”
I reared. “What? No. Megs, this isyourbachelorette party. Getting laid is not?—”
“Stop. When was the last time you went on a date?”
Every painted face in the room turned for the answer. Which I did not provide simply because Megan already knew the gory details. Derek and I had been together for eight years, going from high school sweethearts to the biggest crash on the highway when my mother got sick. Turned out the “love of my life” wasn’t interested in a girlfriend who spent more time at the hospital than with him, even if her mother did have terminal cancer. He was, however, interested in one of the cute medical assistants who took my dying mom’s vitals each morning.
And here I’d thought he was justthatdedicated to my family.
I wished I could say good riddance and move on with a rebound and a new boyfriend. Unfortunately, grieving the end of an eight-year relationship along with the death of my mother turned my lady parts into the Mojave Desert.
“Laney?”
I turned from the mirror when Megan tugged on my hand again.
Oh, no. I knew that look. The big, brown-eyed, puppy-dog expression that my best friend specialized in whenever she wanted something specific. I was powerless against that look. Everyone was.
“Laney,” she said again. “You’re the best friend, the best maid of honor a girl could ever want. You got me the Backstreet Boys at the Sphere. Cirque de Soleil and Magic Mike. I’ve seen enough six packs and swagger this weekend to last me a decade. So, tonight is about thanking you because I love you to the freaking moon and back.”
“Awwwwww,” came the presidential chorus behind her.
I blinked back tears. For all her bossiness, this was why Megan and I had stayed friends literally all our lives. We knew exactly what to say and when to say it. When to push each other and when to love.
“I love you too.” I accepted a tight hug. “Which is why?—”
“Which is why you’re going to let me pull you out of your shell tonight.”
And we were back in push mode.
