All I want is to be close enough to count her eyelashes again, to feel the curve of her smile against my chest. It’s all I’ve ever wanted since sophomore year when she borrowed my chemistry notes and accidentally returned them with a sketch of me in the margins.
Chapter 33
Tracy
“Are you sure this will work?” Alex asks.
“She’s already done her final fitting. And she probably won’t risk putting it on until the big day,” I say.
It was surprisingly easy to sneak into Kenzie’s place—the spare key under the ceramic turtle in her garden, the squeak of the back door that we muffled with our palms, the familiar smell of her vanilla-scented candles that made my stomach turn.
We tiptoe across her plush white carpet, leaving faint footprints in our wake, and slide into her walk-in closet where designer clothes hang in perfect color coordination. The wedding dress hangs at the very end, wrapped in a pristine garment bag that rustles like whispers as I slowly unzip it. We both just shake our heads, speechless.
Kenzie has been so secretive about her dress, insisting on attending every appointment alone, her phone mysteriously absent of fitting photos. Not like we all were for Harper, champagne flutes in hand, tears and laughter mixing as she twirled in front of the mirrors.
We gasp as we take in the sight of the dress. The ivory silk catches the light from Kenzie’s bedroom, making the thousands of hand-sewn sequins shimmer like fish scales. The bodice hugs an invisible form, its sweetheart neckline edged with delicate Chantilly lace that looks as fragile as spun sugar. Cascading layers of tulle create a ballgown silhouette that would make any bride look like she floated rather than walked down the aisle—exactly as Harper had dreamed when she first tried it on.
“This is—”
“Harper’s dress,” I finish.
No wonder she didn’t want anyone with her as she picked her dress. She stole it from Harper.
“Does she have an original thought of her own?” I ask.
“What exactly is the plan, here?” Alex asks me.
That’s a great question. We hadn’t quite figured that out. All we decided in our drunken stupor at the bachelorette party was that we were going to ruin the dress.
“How about making small cuts in it?” Alex offers.
I shake my head. “No, those could be remedied fairly easy. All she’d have to do is wear white underneath.”
“Large cuts?”
Laughing, I touch the bodice. “Giant gaps where her boobs should be?”
“She’d probably walk down with her tits hanging out thinking she’s doing something edgy.”
“We need to do something… big. But it can’t be something that she’ll try to pull off as a fashion statement.”
The metallic jingle of keys scraping into the front door lock sends electric panic shooting through my veins.
“Shit,” Alex mouths silently, her eyes wide as dinner plates.
We fumble with trembling fingers to zip the garment bag closed, the plastic rustling traitorously loud in the quiet room. I grab Alex’s wrist and we squeeze ourselves behind the massive white bag, pressing our bodies flat against Kenzie’s color-coordinated blouses and knock-off designer jeans she insists are real.
The wedding dress hangs between us and discovery like a ghostly sentinel, its voluminous skirts barely concealing our feet. I hold my breath until my lungs burn, praying the thundering of my heart isn’t as audible as it feels hammering against my ribs.
“He’s still in love with her. I know it. I can feel it,” Kenzie says to herself as she paces her bedroom. “What more can I do to prove I’m better than Harper? Why can’t anyone see it?”
Maybe stop trying tobeHarper? We might actually like Kenzie if we know who the hell you are.
Nah, probably not.
“I can’t figure out what more I can give Asher. Why is he still hung up on Harper? She’s not even that pretty.”
She whips open the closet doors with enough force to make the wooden hangers rattle like wind chimes in a storm. Alex’s clammy palm finds mine in the darkness, our fingers interlocking in a death grip. My lungs burn as I hold my breath, counting each excruciating second as Kenzie’s vanilla perfume—the same one Harper used to wear—wafts into our hiding spot. Through the narrow gap between dresses, I can see her manicured fingers, nails painted the exact shade of blush Harper wore at her engagement party, hovering inches from the garment bag that barely conceals us.
