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With a whole lot less enthusiasm, I murmur, “Great. Me neither.”
EIGHT
Savannah
Refreshed after my nap, I threw on a black t-shirt I found in the bottom of my suitcase and the same pair of jeans I’ve worn for the past week.
If I’d been asked, on a scale of one to ten, how much I would enjoy a shopping trip with my brother’s best friend’s girlfriend, I would have said negative ten, not at all.
I’d have been very wrong about that.
Although I should be upset because my efforts to distance myself from her have failed—miserably—today has been surprisingly fun.
We’ve laughed and gossiped about anything and everything. When Sutton told me about her love for nineties chick flicks and music, I just about proposed to her. We listed our top five Meg Ryan films, giggling uncontrollably as we reenacted the orgasm scene fromWhenHarry Met Sally. This afternoon has been a blast.
It certainly helps that between each store, we stop at a bar for a drink. Now I’m slightly tipsy and definitely spending more money than I planned, but you only live once. At least that’s what Sutton keeps telling me as she guides me to the cashier with each purchase.
Sutton throws her arm around my shoulder, practically bending in half to rest her chin on my shoulder as she dangles a scrap of material in front of me.
“You have to try this dress on.”
It’s beautiful, but there ain’t a whole lot being left to the imagination. I might as well be naked.
“I don’t think that will cover everything it should,” I giggle.
Sutton hiccups and we stare at each other before bursting into a fit of giggles, attracting glares from the uppity sales associates. We’re in one of the fancier department stores in the city and I’m very aware that in my non-designer clothes, I stick out like a sore thumb.
Stepping back, Sutton thrusts the dress into my chest, simultaneously turning me in the direction of the fitting rooms and taking my bags from me. “I won’t take no for an answer on this one,” she slurs.
Maybe we’ve had enough to drink.
Obeying her demand, I weave my way through the store, clutching onto the dress like I might lose it. The woman manning the fitting rooms eyes me from head to toe. Just to spite her for making assumptions about me that are most likely true, I’m tempted to drop the dress on her folding table and leave.
She hands me a card and dismisses me as she goes back to folding the cashmere sweater in front of her. It seems like not having manners is a necessity in this store. Heck, it’s a necessity for this city.
I find an empty stall and step inside, closing the door behind me. Dim lighting overhead gives the room a soothing ambience, with the mirrors on three of the walls lit from behind, adding to the soft glow.
Hanging the dress on the back of the door, I cross my arms over my stomach and pull my t-shirt over my head. There’s no point in hanging around. I could just stand in here and pretend to try the dress on, but a tightness in the pit of my stomach tells me to follow the signs.
Signs of what, I have no idea.
Next to go are my sneakers, socks and then my jeans. Standing in my underwear, I contemplate whether I can get away with leaving my bra on, but the built-in cups make that decision for me. I’m definitely wearing the wrong panties for this dress. For half a second, I contemplate removing them too before discarding the idea. A red G-string might not be ideal, but it will do.
Carefully, I remove the dress from the hanger, holding it up against my body. Three stripes of black material, that get progressively thicker the further they go, are broken up by sheer mesh. The three bands of fabric go in a diagonal direction from my waist to my hip, then from my hip to my thigh and finally from my thigh to my knee, repeating on the back.
The bust is black and very exposed, with the mesh material underneath covering the space between the cups of the dress and the first black stripe. Spaghetti straps hold everything up.
Okay, here goes nothing.
On a sigh, I face the door and pull the dress away from my body. Carefully, I unzip the fragile fabric before stepping in. I can just picture how silly I’m going to look in this dress. Images of it drowning me in fabric with areas exposed that shouldn’t be flit through my mind. I’m certain it wasn’t made with someone as short as me in mind.
Tugging up the zip, I smooth my hands over my hips, glad that I’m the only one about to witness my embarrassment.
Pulling in a breath for courage, I blow it out slowly as I turn to face the ambush of mirrors. My jaw drops. It’s stunning. Never in my wildest dreams did I think it would look as good as it does.
I think I’m in love.
The cut outs of sheer material hint at the treasures hidden beneath, yet the black material is positioned perfectly to keep my modesty. You can’t even see my underwear, although if I was to wear it, I’d go commando.
