I think he’s up to "Songbird" now, which Mrs.Henderson is tangoing to—badly—based on the rhythmic stomping.
I’m reaching for the scissors to cut the tags off the dress when I hear it.
Harper’s BMW crunches up the gravel drive.A beat later, Claire’s minivan pulls in behind it.
No.
No, no, no.
A full Winters sister ambush.
They have the spare key.I have thirty seconds.
Maybe less.
I yank the dress over my head and immediately get caught in the zipper.
I’m hopping on one foot, tangled in green silk, when the door bursts open.
“Surprise!”Claire sings, only to stop in her tracks.“Oh no.Honey, are you being attacked by couture?”
“Nope.This is just…interpretive dance," I say through the fabric currently wrapped around my head."Very avant-garde."
“She’s stuck,” Harper says, pushing in behind her, all long limbs and sharp lawyer eyes under her auburn bob, assessing the situation like she’s about to file a restraining order against my wardrobe.
"No."I wiggle unsuccessfully."Maybe."I try to smooth the silky material, trying not to think about the last time I wore something this nice."What are you two doing here?"
"Can't we visit our sister?"Harper asks, but she's already rifling through my jewelry box.
"On a Thursday?When you both have jobs?"
"I took the afternoon off from one of my designs,” Claire says, which is suspicious because she never takes time off."And Harper had a deposition cancel."
They're both avoiding eye contact, which means?—
"Oh god, what happened?Is Dad okay?Mom?"
"Everyone's fine," Harper assures me, holding up a pair of earrings."These.Definitely these."
"Then why?—"
"Can't we just want to see you?"Claire asks, glowing and visibly pregnant in a cozy knit dress, gasps.“You’re wearing that?Tonight?”
“I have an…event.And it’s either this or a butter-stained apron.”
With a sigh only sisters can manage, together, they work me free from my self-imposed silk prison and smooth the dress into place.
And for a second—I feel stunning.
The emerald clings in all the right ways, hugging curves I usually hide under cardigans.
It makes my green eyes look impossibly bright and my freckled skin look even warmer.
“Holy Hell,” Claire breathes, her graphic design artist’s eye already tearing up.“You look like a painting.”
“You look like revenge,” Harper says, holding up a necklace, which I take it.“And I mean that as the highest possible compliment.”
“Thanks,” I breathe out.“I really appreciate you guys—“ I blink, stopping in my tracks.“Okay, what the hell is going on?”
