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Then there was the silent, strange ride in the car with Rick. He kept looking at me like he wanted to say something, these mournful little glances that made everything uncomfortable when he stayed silent except to mumble, Yes, Miss Lark, and No, Miss Lark.
The deference was weird. I know I’m supposed to expect a lot of butt-kissing as August’s fiancée, but I’m still just me.
Not Miss Lark.
Except Angelique and the other girls at the boutique kept calling me that too. I didn’t know anywhere else to go. I had August’s Platinum Card in hand, about an hour to find a dress and get home to get dressed, and no time to wander from shop to shop.
At least they were nice about it.
Even if they exchanged pitying glances as they realized August wasn’t with me this time.
Look at her. Poor girl. He’s already tired of her.
Why do I care?
That question circles through my head, wearing frustrated ruts as I stare morosely at my reflection in my bedroom mirror. If anything, it’s perfect.
Later, when the gossip rags spend one column on a third page on our breakup, these girls will pop up on Instagram saying, You know, I helped them at the couture shop I work at. The first time I saw them he was already ignoring her on his phone, and every other time she came in alone. He’d just throw his card at her like it didn’t matter.
Believable, right?
So believable.
I rub my throat, right over the spot where a lump is forming, and smile at my own tired, pale face. Paler than normal, I should say.
Red lipstick with this dress was a terrible idea.
With an upset sound I rip a tissue out of the holder and scrub it off furiously, leaving red smears all over the paper.
I’m fine. I’m fine.
I look amazing. I really do.
This dress feels like an inverted white morning glory. A soft, shimmery sheath of sleeveless gossamer with a gently dipping neckline exposing a hint of cleavage.
Subtle ribs in the dress mirror flower petals as they form it to my body, flaring out over my hips into an A-skirt that skims down to midthigh. The subtle pearl dust of glitter in the ribs and at the hem matches the faint glittery body shine on my shoulders and arms, and the barely there shine of the simple white pearl-sheen pumps Angelique paired with the dress.
Again, I look like a little fairy dusted with moonlight.
So why can’t I shake the gloom in my eyes and in my heart?
I paint on a smile—this time in a paler pearl pink that suits my complexion better.
I’m glowing tonight, from the pale shimmering pink of my eye shadow and darker glitter-pink liner to the subtle shades shifting in and out of my dress. It’s a new look for me, honestly.
I usually go for bold, eclectic color combinations. I know I’m a wild mess, and I tend to dress to match.
But I don’t mind this softer look either.
It feels like—
Never mind. It doesn’t matter what it feels like.
Because I hear a car pulling up outside, and by now I know the sound of that engine. I glance through the curtains in my bedroom, and there it is. That deep-blue G80—such a flashy car for such a stiff man.
I wonder if he picked it himself.
His one splash of color, of boldness—whispering at secret urges inside?
