I open my mouth, then close it. Not only was I never invited to help set anything up, but she has made it quietly, consistently clear at every turn that she doesn’t want me around. And yet somehow she’s managed to sound genuinely wounded by my absence. Put out. Like I’ve let her down.
“Pearl,” Jo says, in a tone that is gentle but final, “Rose has had a lot going on. And you do this for a living—it was much easier for you to manage than it would have been for her.”
Pearl’s mouth presses into a thin smile. She reaches for her sparkling water.
Dad, who notices the tension but doesn’t call Pearl on any of it, clears his throat and mentions the weather. I’ve lost my appetite. I wait what feels like a reasonable amount of time—long enough that it doesn’t look like fleeing—before I fold my napkin and excuse myself.
“Pre-wedding photos in an hour!” Jo calls after me.
“I’ll be there,” I say. “I just need to get dressed.”
Chapter 19: Rose
I’m silently seething when I get back to my room. The garment bag is where I left it, hanging in the bathroom. I hook it over the shower curtain rod and unzip it slowly. God, it’s a stunning dress. Sparkling emerald, a gorgeous cut—against all that lush resort greenery out there, it’s going to look like it was made for this place.
I’m genuinely excited to wear it. I unhook the straps from the hanger, and that’s when I notice how small it is. I give the material a tug. Silk with a chiffon overlay. No stretch, no give. My throat tightens as I check the back for a size tag.
I should have tried this dress on sooner. I should have made sure it would fit. Pearl texted me a month ago, confirmed my size, and I just left it at that, assuming it would be fine.
I mean, yeah, I've gained a few pounds recently. Sitting around Easton’s apartment feeling sorry for myself, eating cheesecake didn’t help. But I didn’t gain that much.
I unzip the back of the dress and step in. And I know immediately it isn’t going to fit. I shimmy anyway, stopping just before the seam rips at my thighs. It’s a size two, maybe. I’m a twelve.
I set it down on the counter and blink at myself in the mirror for a moment, trying very hard not to look down and examinemy body, inspecting every extra inch. Was there this much cellulite this morning? Did I always have all those stretch marks on my thighs?
My body is mine. Pearl doesn’t have to love it. But she knew exactly what size to get me that would make me question, even for a moment, if I deserved to wear such a beautiful dress.
My mind whirls. I leave the dress where it is, then hurry over to the bed and dump my bag out. Jeans and t-shirts. The Georgia Peach softball tournament shirt and matching shorts Marco gave me. I glance over at my dress from last night, still crumpled on the narrow table below the TV. I cross the room and pick it up. It’s dry, but the wine stain is still there, faint and pink from Sunshine’s scrubbing. There’s no way I can wear it tonight.
I pull my jeans and t-shirt back on, then sit on the edge of the bed with the bridesmaid dress in my lap.
“Why do I keep letting her do this to me?” I say it out loud, to no one. Pearl doesn’t make mistakes. This was intentional.
This is why we don’t interact. Why I barely responded when she texted asking for my size. When I was younger, I tried with her. I really did. But after her breakup with Easton, she turned on me completely, and eventually I just let go—of caring what she thought, of trying to be her friend, her sister.
There’s a knock on the door. I know it’s Logan, because no one else would come. I swing it open. At least I’m not on the verge of crying anymore.
Still, he takes one look at me and says, “What’s wrong?”
My heart breaks a little at that. Logan, who I’ve known for two days, reads me better than anyone in my family ever has.
“The dress doesn’t fit.”
“Huh?”
I step back, and he comes in, eyes moving from the dress in my hand to the pile of clothes on the bed to my face. He takes the dress from me and holds it up.
“This?”
I nod.
“It doesn’t fit?” he asks in surprise, in a way only a sweet, clueless guy would.
“No, it doesn’t. It’s like a size two. I’m… not that.”
“Are you sure?”
“I would very much like to punch you in the face right now. Yes, of course I’m sure.”
