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“No,” I shook my head, interrupting her. “Please, babe, no. You are my last partner in crime! Please, please tell me I’m not about to buy another bridesmaid dress!”
“You would be maid of honor at this one. And I was thinking silky jumpers?”
It was official. Always a bridesmaid, never the bride. I was seriously going to be alone now. All alone. I hung my head. “I love you. Congratulations.”
“Meet me at our place in twenty?” she asked hopefully.
“Of course,” I said, with a teary smile.
“Abbie, can you believe it?”
“Of course I can,” I said as I unbuttoned my coat. “You two are perfect for each other. That’s why I set you up.”
“I know. I never thought I would say this, but I’m saying it. I’m getting married!” She was choking on emotion, and I couldn’t wait to see it on her. I was sure she wore it well.
“I know, I know,” I said, pushing a tear away from my eyes.
Suck it up and be happy for her.
“I’ll see you in twenty.”
Thirty minutes later, I walked into The Violet Hour, a posh but hidden speakeasy on North Damen. The place looked like a wooden fortress on the outside with a graffiti block on the lower half of the building. You wouldn’t know it existed if you didn’t look for the gold door handle and the line outside of it.
Bree and I had been regulars since we moved to Wicker Park, and it was no easy feat to get a seat on the weekends. But because it was a dreary and wet Sunday night, I slipped right in. I’d changed into my most revealing dress, a long-sleeved crepe V-neck that exposed just enough cleavage to make it sexy. I’d let down my long, auburn hair and tamed it with a few curls. I felt stylish in my new knee-high black boots. I went heavy on the liner over my light blue eyes and colored my lips in a raspberry tinted gloss.
A single chandelier hung from the ceiling, dripping elegance but leaving the bar dim enough to be shrouded in mystery. Outrageously tall wingback chairs were arranged around the room and clustered together in pairs of two or four, intended for privacy, but close enough that you had little. Candlelight glowed upon the intimate, white granite tables between the seats. I approached Bree at the bar, and she waved when she spotted me.
“Holy shit, you look hot,” she said as she stood from her chair as I slipped off my coat.
“Thanks, babe. I haven’t had much reason to dress up lately. I needed the practice.” I pulled back from her tight embrace with the most genuine smile I could muster before we followed the host to be seated. I slipped into the green leather chair, and the tension in my shoulders relaxed a little. The sexy and forbidden atmosphere put me at ease. The Violet Hour had the feel of pure seduction, as if the interior itself was saying: Hey, it’s okay to be bad here. Take a souvenir home with you.
“Okay, let me see it,” I demanded, gripping her left hand only to see her finger was bare.
“He didn’t plan it,” she said with a serene smile as she squeezed my hand and let go. “And that’s why I said yes. He didn’t even ask me.”
That earned an eye roll.
“God, that’s just like you two. ‘Hey, let’s go to the movies sometime.’ ‘Hey, let’s move in together.’ ‘Hey, let’s quit our jobs and travel the world for three months.’” I shook my head with a grin, but I secretly thanked God that their three-month walkabout this past summer was over. That separation nearly cost me my sanity. This last trip had only been a little over a week long. Her life seemed glamorous, and I envied her for that, but I was happy she’d finally found someone to keep her grounded in Chicago. At least, that was my selfish hope. It was obvious I was too dependent on her, but she had been my one constant since my first month at Northwestern.
Bree lowered her face and gave me a pointed brown gaze. “Hey, all of those ideas were awesome! And not all mine. Anthony came up with a few.”
“God save him. Anthony is in for it with you as his wife.”
“And he knows it. Jealous?” she asked playfully.
“Absolutely. He’s so lucky,” I said with a wink. “You’d make a perfect wife for me.”
“It’s a shame I’m not a lesbian. With the way you look in that dress, I may have folded.”
“Ew,” I said with a laugh. “If I were going to go that direction, it wouldn’t be with you. I’ve seen where your mouth has been.”
“We made out once,” she said unabashedly. “Don’t you forget it.”
“You licked my lips because I ate all your nana’s homemade butterscotch pudding. That’s hardly making out. And I never did it again.”
“It counts,” she insisted, running her fingers through her blond ponytail before retrieving a small box from her purse. “I brought you a present.”
“Oh, you definitely should have. But this can wait. Tell me everything.”
