He’s somewhere on the resort property now, arranging our dinner plans, and I’m determined to find something stunning to wear for him. All I packed were sundresses and bikinis, none of which will do. I want something special.
Let’s be honest here. I want to blow him away.
The boutique is tucked off the main lobby, small and quiet. It’s the kind of place where dresses hang with six inches of space between them not crammed in tight like the discount places I normally go to where people shop by the armful. The lighting makes everything glow. Even the air smells expensive.
I hold a sea glass green dress up to my chest and study myself in the full-length mirror. It’s fitted through the waist, with a drapey neckline that dips low enough to be interesting without crossing into territory that requires double-sided tape.
The saleswoman, a warm Bajan woman with reading glasses on a beaded chain, nods as she approaches me. “That’s one of my favorites.”
“I love the color,” I tell her, but then I spot a pale-peach dress that’s also pretty in a different way. “This one is nice too.”
Feminine and soft, with thin spaghetti straps and a hem that hits just above the knee. Simpler than the green. It doesn’t scream “look at me” the way the first one does. I hold it up in front of me and assess in the mirror.
“Another good choice,” the saleswoman says.
“I like them both for different reasons. The green is sexier. The peach is more me. Which is maybe why I should pick the green, because I already know how to be me, and tonight I want to be...” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
She smiles. “The version of you that makes someone’s jaw drop?”
“Exactly that.”
A week ago, the first thing I would have done is flip the price tags and calculate how many double shifts each dress represented. The old reflex almost fires, my fingers twitching toward the tag on the green, but I stop. I have money in my account. Real money, not the kind that comes with an asterisk and a prayer that the electric bill doesn’t hit before payday.
And the woman in this mirror, the one with the sun-kissed shoulders and the reckless smile, isn’t here to budget. She’s here to choose.
I’m holding a dress in each hand, genuinely torn and enjoying the luxury of that indecision, when the air in the boutique shifts.
It’s a feeling I know from the diner. The change in atmospheric pressure that happens when a certain kind of customer walks in. Someone who’s already decided the service won’t be good enough, the food won’t be hot enough, the wait will be too long. I can feel those types of people before I see them, the way the room tightens by a fraction.
I turn.
Honey Carlisle steps out from behind a display of rich-lady silk caftans near the back of the store, and the smile she gives me is polished and cool and about as warm as the marble floor under my sandals.
“Ella. What a nice surprise.” She says my name correctly this time, which means she’s been paying closer attention than she pretended at the bonfire. “Shopping for something special?”
I swallow past the cold knot in my throat. “Just looking at a few things.” I match her pleasant tone because that’s what I always do with people like her. I read the table, smile, give the customer the benefit of the doubt until they show me who they really are. “You?”
“Oh, I practically live in here.” She runs her fingertips along a rack of dresses without looking at them, the way someone touches furniture in their own house. “They know my size by heart at this point.”
I notice the saleswoman has quietly made her escape. Evidently, she’s familiar enough with Honey to make a fast getaway.
Honey’s wearing white again. Linen, perfectly pressed, with gold jewelry that looks heavy and real. Her hair falls in a smooth platinum curtain that probably required thirty minutes and a professional-grade flat iron. Everything about her is curated, expensive, deliberate.
I’ve waited on a hundred women who look and act like her. I know the type and I know the tip. Usually generous, but always with a faint air of charity about it.
“That’s a gorgeous green.” She nods toward the dress in my right hand. “Bold choice.”
“I think so too.”
“Is it for something tonight? You and your suitemate have plans?” The way she sayssuitematemakes the word sound temporary. Disposable.
“We do.” I leave it there.
Her eyes move over me. Not the quick social scan people do in conversation, but a slower assessment that starts at my sandals, pauses at the sundress I’m wearing, which is a cotton thing I bought at a street market three days ago, and arrives at my face with a conclusion already formed.
“Can I be honest with you, Ella?” She tilts her head, and the gesture is so fake it makes my teeth clench. Sympathetic angle. Concerned brow. “I’ve been watching you two all week, and I think you’re lovely. I really do. But I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
The back of my neck prickles. The same feeling as a customer reaching for the complaint card. “I appreciate the concern.”
