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“Charlotte! Look at how beautiful this is.” The purple dress has bright pink hibiscus flowers on it and spaghetti straps that lead to a modestly low-cut neckline. It’s definitely something I would wear.
“Oh, that is pretty,” Noelle agrees with a smile on her face.
“I really like it, Mom. What size is that?”
“It’s a small. You should try it on.”
“Oh, I’m probably going to need a medium. Do they have it in a medium?”
Her face scrunches as she looks down at the dress and then back to me. “I don’t know. I grabbed a small because that’s what I wear,” she laughs. “And I remember there was a time when you wore a small too.”
My shoulders fall as she looks back at the dress. “Well, now I wear a medium, and sometimes a large, depending on the brand.”
My mother turns on that sweet southern charm in the snap of her fingers. “Good to know. I’ll just go check if they have it in a bigger size then.” Her eyes travel up and down my body, assessing my figure. “You know, if you dropped about ten pounds, I bet you could fit into the small. Maybe you could buy this one as a goal to fit into it.”
I bite my lip and shake my head, holding back the lava I feel boiling inside of me, threatening to erupt. But Noelle replies for me before I can.
“You know, Charlotte was just telling me she has so many dresses at home that another one is the last thing she needs. So why don’t you just put that back, Savannah.”
My mother’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, well I just thought she’d like it. Perhaps I’ll just buy it for myself then.” She spins on her heels and walks away from us as Noelle rubs her hand on my arm.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth and then turn to look at other knickknacks in the store.
“Charlotte…”
“Just drop it, Noelle.”
With shaky hands, I exit the store and take out my phone, looking for someone to talk to, something to distract me from my inner turmoil.
And when I land on Damien’s name in my text messaging app, I begin to type out a few words to the one person I know doesn’t care what size clothing I wear.
Me: Hey. Hope you’re having fun.
I cringe after I hit send, wondering why I said that instead of what I really feel—I miss you. I wish you were with me right now. I could really use a hug from you at this moment.
I see the text send and get delivered. After a few moments with no response, I can tell he hasn’t read it yet. He’s probably busy with the guys on their golfing excursion today. Shoving my phone back in my purse, I stare out along the street I’m on, wondering how on earth I got here and why, after what just happened with my mother, I know Penelope was right.
But I’ll be damned if I mention that epiphany right now.
Only three more days—three more days of holding my tongue and pretending like everything is okay.
But when is enough, enough?
