Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
I swallow and choose my next words carefully. Most of my roommates at the co-op—Ian included—make fun of my job at the country club. It’s kind of funny when you think about it: they make fun of the rich people who choose to spend their time and money at Twin Oaks, and my old classmates and members at Twin Oaks balk at the idea of these artist types living together in a co-op. I guess being judgey crosses all class lines.
“Oh, yeah…just going to some party.”
“For your dad?”
Ian knows I come from a wealthy family.
“Uhh, something like that.”
He quirks his brow, and I can tell he wants to keep pushing the subject, but I don’t have time. It’s already 8:00 PM, and according to Beth, James will be here at 8:30. I wave bye to Ian and then bolt down the hallway. When I get closer to my door, I spot a black satin box with a matching ribbon sitting on the floor. Beside it, there’s another box, much smaller, but no less fancy. I turn back to confirm Ian’s gone, grab the boxes, and push into my room with a massive smile on my face.
It’s my dress. I know it, and I have a hard time keeping myself from squealing with excitement. I’ve had romantic experiences in the past. College boyfriends packed me the occasional soggy picnic or threw together a mix CD full of songs about other peoples’ love, but this—this feels special, even if James didn’t pick out the dress himself. He definitely cared enough to ensure I’d have something beautiful to wear for the party.
For him.
No. Wrong.
I’m attending so I can keep his business associate’s date occupied, and I need to remember that…but what was that he said at the end of our conversation by the pool? That I could be introduced however I chose? Surely he meant that to mean what I think he did.
Whatever. Who cares. I have more important things to worry about, like these two boxes (!!!).
I kick my door closed and drop them carefully on my bed. First, I open the big one. The ribbon is silky between the pads of my fingers as I release the bow and slide the top of the box to the side. Inside, there’s black tissue paper for miles. I pull apart the layers gently, like an archeologist handling a delicate artifact. Finally, I reach the bottom and lay eyes on the dress. My breath catches.
It’s silky and black, just like the box. The name on the label catches my attention: Vivian Palermo. She’s a local Austin designer whose dresses usually retail for the price of a prize pony—I know because Ellie and I saw one hanging inside Nordstrom last week and started drooling until we saw the price tag. My dad might have money, but that doesn’t mean I do. I work for every dollar I have, so while designers like Palermo hang abundantly in my imagination, they are nowhere to be found in my closet.
Until now.
I carefully extract the dress from the box and hold it up.
A laugh erupts out of me before I can stop it. Something is wrong. The dress is nothing more than a slip, really. The thin straps give way to a plunging neckline, and though the skirt seems like it will fall to a decent length on my thighs, it’s deceiving—the short fringe on bottom won’t conceal a thing once I have it on. It’s a modern take on a 1920s flapper dress, and I’ll be lucky if I make it through the night without at least one boob and most of my vulva being on full display. Thanks for nothing, Beth.
In the smaller box, I find a pair of Manolo Blahnik stilettos. The heel is sky high and thin, completely impossible to walk in save for the slender ankle strap. The shoes are delicate and sexy, and I want to find them as ridiculous as the dress, but I don’t. Even if James asks for the outfit back, I won’t forfeit these. They’re mine now.
The outfit I described to Linda back at Milk + Honey was nothing like this. I was anticipating some kind of dress worthy of a gala or fundraiser. This dress, despite its beauty, is more fit for a Halloween superstore. I cringe at that thought; I’m not giving it enough credit. The designer knew what she was doing, and as I slip it on—just to see how it fits—I’m not sure how I feel about it. I spin and take in the dress from every angle using my thin floor-length mirror. It fits like a glove, tight across my chest and stomach before it flares out slightly below my waist. I add the shoes, because well, I have to, and when the whole ensemble is complete, I feel like someone else, someone who wears dresses like this and accepts party invitations from total strangers. I’ve had my fair share of wild nights and spontaneous adventures, but never with someone like James. I know I’m out of my league, and that only intrigues me more.