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Just as the words passed her lips, the woman who was assisting us brought in two more dresses. She cringed at Bree’s comment and hung up her finds on the standing rack of silk and lace.
“Here are a few more that might be your style.”
“Thanks,” Bree said, picking through the rack before she eyed the attendant and walked over to me. “This place is so Pretty Woman,” she said with a devilish grin. A grin I knew was trouble.
“Oh, honey,” she spouted, pitching her voice before resting her booted foot on the sparkling white cushion next to me. “I think I’ve got a runner in my pantyhose,” she said, running her hand down her bare leg.
The attendant eyed Bree in horror as she continued, adding her southern flair. “Oh me, oh my,” she drawled. “I’m not wearing pantyhose,” she deadpanned, as if it was the cue for the end of her scene.
Bree then went on about her business as she normally did when she’d embarrassed me. “Speaking of sex, when are you going to put the poor man out of his misery?”
The attendant scurried from the room as if she needed to pray the evil away, and Bree kept her eyes on me. I buried my head in my hands. “Could you, for once, try not to humiliate me everywhere we go? I might be here for my own dress one day.”
“Oh, come on. What exactly does she think happens to these dresses on the wedding night?”
“I don’t know, but she probably didn’t do anal to get her husband to propose.”
Bree rolled her eyes. “You aren’t a prude, and this isn’t your first rodeo. Are you nervous?”
“No, I told you that we’re taking it slow. He’s a gentleman, and he’s wooing me.”
“You’ve become a little bit high maintenance,” she said, slipping on her corduroy overalls.
“I have not,” I said, averting my eyes.
“You have,” she insisted as she thumbed through the dresses, unimpressed. “You have, and I’m proud of you for it. You’ve come a long way. Let’s get out of here.”
On the way to the bridal shop in Wicker Park, Bree stopped us in the street.
“Come on, it’s been a while.”
Realizing where we were, I looked up and found the sign hanging next to the dry cleaner marquee.
“Not again,” I said, shaking my head. “This is a waste of your money.”
She nudged me before she put her hand on the door. “You should get a reading. She’s on point every time I come.”
“And you believe her,” I huffed. “No one can tell you your future, Bree.”
“Yes, they can, and she has. She predicted Anthony was coming,” she said as she opened the glass door.
“There’s always another man coming,” I scoffed as I followed her up the stairs. “That’s not a prediction. It’s a normal progression when you’re single.”
Bree was the only woman I knew who got her palm read on a regular basis. I thought the whole thing was a crock of shit, but she believed otherwise. Bree thought certain people had the ability to look into your soul. I believed that certain people trained themselves to read mannerisms and clues to pinpoint background, signs of health, mental state, and took advantage of them emotionally.
“You’re too cynical. You could just try it for fun,” she proposed, taking the steps two at a time.
“I don’t believe in this,” I whispered as we neared the top of the stairs. “I believe in numbers. They’re absolute. I can’t believe in much else without explanation.”
“You can’t see love,” she argued.
I shrugged. “True, but you know some scientists believe love is really just a manifestation of attraction, a chemical reaction that produces a rush of endorphins that gets you high. And eventually, the high dulls as the senses become immune due to exposure to the same person.”
“But you’re a romantic,” she pointed out, her tone incredulou
s. “Like a diehard romantic.”
“I am,” I agreed. “I’m addicted to the high. I’m a fiend for it.”
