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Well, I can’t go home with it now. “How about for $1,700? I mean, it’s only been used twice. It’s in tip-top shape.”
“I’m afraid $1,700 is a little bit beyond our budget.”
“$1,500?”
“I’m so sorry—”
“Fine, $1,000. That’s 50% off the price we paid.”
The way her eyes light up tells me that’s exactly the price they are going for. They’ll probably still sell it at $2,000. But business is business.
Finally, she smiles. “Well, I believe we could afford that.”
She reaches out her arms to take my dress. “May I?”
I don’t want to hand it over, but at least I get $1,000 back and don’t have to be under the wrath of Aunt Olive. So, I slowly give it to her, keeping my eyes on the dress up until she takes it to the back of the room.
I turn off the engine of my aunt’sMini Cooper.But instead of getting out of the vehicle and heading back to the apartment, I decide to sit in silence inside this car.
It’s the only time I can probably mourn for my wedding dress. For my relationship.
But not for long.
After a minute of melancholy, my phone pings with a message notification.
For some reason, my mind immediately assumes it’s Larson; maybe the store called him about the dress, and he’s come to appease me. I don’t know. I’m hoping it’s him. But as I grab it from the passenger seat, I see it’s from a familiar unsaved number.
It’s familiar because it’s the number I looked at multiple times yesterday before finally calling it: Carter’s.
I read his message:Are you having a better day?
While seeing Carter reach out could stir a kaleidoscope of butterflies in any female’s stomach, I’m not in the proper headspace to entertain anyone. So, I ignore it.
I finally head upstairs and find Clara and my mom still buzzing with wedding cancellation work.
Clara sees me and smiles. “Did you do it?”
I produce the $1,000 from my pocket and put it on the dining table. “I did what I could.”
She glances at my mom, who’s busy talking on the phone, before asking, “Are you okay?”
No, I’m not.But I just nod. “Couldn’t be better.”
To distract her from seeing the sadness in my eyes, I ask, “Where’s Aunt Olive?”
Clara replies, “She’s smoking on the rooftop.”
I nod. “Alright, I guess I’ll join her for some fresh air.”
So, I exit the apartment and take the stairs two steps at a time. After four flights of stairs, the sun glares at me viciously. My eyes take a few seconds to adjust. Then, I can clearly see Aunt Olive blowing smoke into the wind as she sits on the old, beat-up couch that’s been there for months.
“Cigarette break?” I say behind her.
Aunt Olive turns around and smiles at me. “You did it, huh?”
“I didn’t think I could.”
“Well, you did.”
