Mave looks bored as he glances between me and his watch every five seconds, and Melina once again has a notepad and a pen in her hands, probably so that she can write down my vision for this event’s attire.
“Mom didn’t set a theme or something?” I ask. She doesn’t always do that, but occasionally, she’ll go over-the-top with the dress code bullshit.
Julian shakes his head. “No, not this time. Remember: it’s supposed to be a charity thing, so if there’s a dress code of some sort, it might get a bit confusing for the guests.”
“And here I thought she’d at least turn it into a masquerade,” I quip.
Mave chuckles. “Announcing winter-wear during a masquerade ball would sure have been…something. I’m distressed we won’t be witnessing history being made,” he muses.
Julian scoffs. “You two are crazy; masquerade balls are cliché as fuck. What are we, a mafia circle or something?” He then claps his hands once – loud enough to make me jerk a little in surprise. “Alright, back to your dress,” he tells me, then pulls his pencil out from behind his ear. “Ideas? Notes? Requests? Throw them my way.”
I hum as I lean back in my chair, and Mave tracks my every move as he tries, and fails, at not noticing the way my dress slides off my thighs as I shift.
I obviously didn’t do it for him, so I try to ignore his stare, and instead, give Julian my complete attention.
“Yellow charmeuse, fitted, floor-length,” I list, then click my tongue. “Spaghetti straps and…a super low-cut back so that my tattoo gets the spotlight it deserves.”
Julian blinks at me for a few seconds, then clears his throat and says, “All of that sounds perf, butyellowcharmeuse?” He blinks again. “Yellow?”
I try not to grin. “Cyberyellow,” I specify, then purse my lips when Mave not-so-discreetly coughs behind a fist.
Julian looks like he’s about to get on the table and jump headfirst into me. “I…” He runs a hand over his slender face in order to calm himself down. “Babe, Cigs, darling.Honey…” He slides forward in his chair. “I love your sense of fashion, I do. And you, like,alwaysdress sexy, but…” He licks his lips. “Yellow? Fuckingyellow?! That’s the color of Homer Simpson’s cock, the color of sun-vomit! It’ssonot the kind of color people wear dresses of onformal events!”
“But it’s such a happy color,” I object. “And I want people to know just howecstaticI am to be a part of this…generous occasion.”
“Ohmygod,” Julian mumbles. “If you mention that color to me again, I swear on everything I hold dear, I’ll jump out of the window.”
I look at the window behind him, then click my tongue. “Not to be a downer, but that’s too small a space for you to fit into. It’ll be better if you just make me my yellow dress instead.”
“Cigs,” he says in warning.
“Look at the stars, look how they shine for you. And everything you do, yeah, they were all yellow…” I sing – ortryto, anyway, and make sure to stretch the last word out a little too loudly.
Julian rubs both his hands over his face. “Jesus, take me now.”
This time, I can’t hold it in; I laugh.
Mave and Melina break down with me, and so do the rest of the stylists on the other side of the room.
“Please don’t ever, and I meanever, sing again,” Mave tells me between bouts of laughter, then grabs a spare chair from his right before settling in it. “Jesus fucking Christ, Nettie; what the fuck?” He continues to laugh.
Julian looks baffled by the cackles that fill the room, then raises his hands in surrender. “You people are dicks,” he states matter-of-factly. “Hairy, circumcised, herpes-infested dicks.”
“You’re really referencing that anatomy in abundance today,” I tell him. “First with the Simpson, and now us. Is this going to be a thing now? Should I research dick jokes for our future interactions?”
He points a finger at me. “You little–” he stops when there’s a knock on the door.
We all look in its direction, just as Mave gets to his feet, slides his chair away, and opens the door.
“Ma’am,” he says civilly, no hint of a reaction on his face, and steps back.
My back straightens, and goosebumps rise throughout my body as my mother walks into the room with an air of unfiltered arrogance.
Her long blonde hair is tied into a high, no-bullshit bun. Her black, full-sleeved bodycon dress fits her like it’s made specifically for her lithe figure – because itismade just for her. The classic gold jewelry she’s wearing – ruby-studded teardrop earrings, a torque, a cuff bracelet, and a couple of cocktail rings on each of her index fingers – looks oddly prominent as the lights in the room reflect strongly against them.
Years of working in the fashion industry has kept Mom’s standards for physical appearances and self-care intact, but fine lines and wrinkles still mar her pale skin, making her seem exactly her age.
Steven walks in a second later, gives Mave a curt nod, and stands next to him – his eyes focused solely on my mom.
