I laugh. “What about pink?”
Her nose puckers. “Are you really a pink sort of girl?”
A teenager nearby snorts, then slinks off when we glare at her.
“No,” I say, “but I’m also not awedding datesort of girl.”
She scoffs. “You are for the guy who asked you to go.”
“He didn’t ask.” I yank out an electric purple thing—halter top, silver shimmer over the skirt. “I invited myself.”
She hums, her hand drifting over green, blue and black options before she turns to me. “Did I tell you I put up the engagement photos? I’ve already gotten a couple calls to schedule sessions.”
“Really?” I throw my hands in the air in celebration. “Yayoi! That’s awesome. You didn’t even tell me you finished editing them.”
She smiles, the crests of her cheeks reddening. “You want to see them?”
“Sure.” I weave through a rainbow of dresses to reach her side.
She pulls up her website and scrolls to the photos of me and Asher. “I haven’t finished the ones of you and your sister yet, but I wanted to get these up as soon as possible. I’m really proud of them.”
She hands me the phone, and my brain short-circuits. This isn’t me, is it? This isnotme. Definitely not Asher. Because I’m not looking at a photo of two friends acting. I’m looking at two people who have capitalFFeelings. These people care for each other.Deeply.
That’s... not us.
The first photo is thePride & Prejudiceone. His forehead rests on mine, and the sun behind us gilds every curve and line of our faces. His hand is grazing my chin, as if he wants to angle my face up for a kiss.
The next is the one in the grass, where we stare at eachother with blatant longing. Gah, do I always look at him like that? How embarrassing...
The one after, I stand with my face resting against his chest, gently smiling like no place on earth is better than his arms.
Photo after photo of joy and yearning and harmony. These people are so happy, so—my mind unhelpfully supplies the obvious—in love.
No. I hightail it in the opposite direction.
They’re just pictures with really great editing.
“These look amazing,” I say, my voice somehow faint and thick at the same time. I hand the phone back.
“I know.” She stares at the last photo—the one of me on Asher’s back, laughing. “You guys play off each other so well.” She laughs. “You know, it’s funny. Geoff said—”
Her abrupt stop has my eyebrow lifting. “Geoff said what?”
She waves her hand. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
Well, now I desperately want to know what Geoff said, but Yayoi is already wandering off, pulling out dresses for consideration.
“Thanks again for doing that, by the way,” she says, “even if you wouldn’t kiss him for me.”
Aaaand now I’m remembering The Kiss. Fuck, the man knows how to kiss. I’ve been so disciplined in not thinking about it, no matter where I am. Joking around at work this week, texting at night, accompanying him to the gym, lying alone and cold in bed—I’ve avoided thinking about it.
But I’m thinking about it now.
I pretend to scan the closest rack—an entire menagerie of white. Choosing white would definitely be evil. But it doesn’t matter because I’m not seeing dresses. I’m seeing Asher.
Mouthwatering, tempting, dangerous Asher.
“Kiss him? Yucky,” I say in a teasing tone. “No way.”
