Paige: I know how you feel about her but I don’t have anyone else to ask.
Reading her text, I feel my gut instantly clench.
No.
Tell her no.
Forcing myself to relax, I do the only thing Icando.
I lie.
Me: Can’t. Sorry. I’m busy.
Paige: Please, Mercer. Don’t make me sit through an entire dinner with my family alone. I’ll literally die of boredom.
Me: I was planning on picking up a shift at Level.
I haven’t worked there full time for about a year now but I still pick up the occasional shift when I’m bored or like tonight—need a distraction. Being Paige’s plus one at Princess Millie’s rehearsal dinner isn’t exactly what I’d call adistraction.
Paige: We can sneak off. I’ll give you a blowjob in the bathroom.
Don’t do it, you fuckwit. Just tell her no and block her this time so she’ll get the picture. You’ve been bullshit free formonths now. Saying yes to her will just dump you right back into the fucked-up cycle.
Me: You’re a hopeless romantic, Paige.
Paige: We don’t do romance, Mercer. We have fun and we fuck. Are you in or out?
Out.
Tell her you’re out.
All the way out.
Me: Where?
Paige: Davino’s. Eight o’clock.
Of course it’s Davino’s. Where else would New York royalty host a rehearsal dinner for their beloved bride-to-be? I check the time. It’s almost seven. Davino’s is three subway stops away. I could shower, shave, and still make it with time to spare and she knows it.
Me: I’ll be there.
Fuck.
EIGHT
The dress I planned to wear to therehearsaldinner is a vintage Dior from 1952—a demure white cocktail dress with exquisite blue and silver embroidery. I found it months ago in a private collection catalog and paid entirely too much for it, just for the occasion. Found the perfect shoes to go with it. The perfect earrings. The perfect clutch.
I had it all planned to a T.
Perfect.
The dress I’m wearing is definitely not demure.
It’s entirely too short.
And black.
And basicallysee-through.
