“You look tired,” she observes with faux concern. “Busy week at school?”
“Something like that,” I say. “Engagement parties and surprise fittings will do that to a girl.”
For a heartbeat, I think she’ll bite at the tone, but she just laughs. “This is all for you, sweet girl. You’re going to look stunning as Chad’s best woman.”
A stylist appears like she has been summoned out of thin air. She is tall, all sharp cheekbones and measuring tape around her neck.
“You must be Penelope,” she says. “I am Lila. We have you in the champagne satin with the slit.”
Abi clasps her hands together. “It’ll be perfect for her. She has the figure to pull it off.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Lead the way.”
Lila directs me to a row of fitting rooms at the back. Each is a little white box with a door and a bench and a tiny pedestal in front of a mirror. I step inside and shut the door, grateful for the small layer of privacy.
The dress hangs on a padded hanger, champagne satin catching the light, simple and clingy with a thigh-high slit that screams I behave but also maybe not. It’s beautiful. It’s also a reminder that I’m about to stand up in front of a crowd and bless my father’s marriage to a woman who probably files her feelings next to her tax records.
I slip out of my clothes and into the dress. The fabric slides over my skin like water. I tug the straps into place and smooth it down over my hips. It hugs every curve in a way that is either flattering or dangerous. Possibly both.
“Penelope, how are we doing in there?” Lila calls from the other side of the door.
“Decent,” I answer. “Mostly. I think.”
She laughs and pulls the door open, stepping in to fuss with the bodice. She adjusts the bust, tugs the waist, and turns me toward the mirror. My reflection stares back, eyes a little too wide, shoulders a little too tight.
“Lovely,” Lila says. “The color is perfect for your skin tone. Let me just pin the hem once you’re on the platform.”
She leads me out to a small raised circle near the main mirrors. Abi is in her own fitting area, door open, stepping into a gown with the help of another stylist. Her dress is a sleek mermaid lace situation that looks like it costs more than my car.
She catches sight of me and lights up. “Oh, look at you.”
I step onto the pedestal and let Lila start pinning the hem while I hold the fabric up. The dress moves around my legs like liquid. I feel exposed and armored at the same time.
“Turn for me, sweetheart,” Abi calls.
I give her a slow spin, more for Lila than for Abi, but I let the skirt flare, anyway.
“Oh, it’s divine,” Abi sighs. “What do you think?”
I study myself in the mirror. “It’s fine.”
Lila laughs. “She means it looks stunning.”
I don’t argue.
Abi moves to her own platform, and her stylist fusses with the lace and trains while Abi stares at herself with fondness.
“So,” I say, as casually as I can with pins near my ankles. “Have you talked to Minxy this week?”
Abi’s gaze flickers to my reflection for half a second. “Of course. I talk to her often.”
“How is she?” I ask.
“Fine,” Abi says. “Focusing on her school program.”
Lila moves around me, pinning the back. I stay still, watching Abi’s face in the mirror.
“What does that mean exactly?” I ask. “Her program?”
