At least having these moments with him are better than nothing.
I put the finishing touches on my makeup. Jo already got herself ready for the garden party—it didn’t take nearly so long, with her short hair—and headed downstairs. I study myself, making weird faces in the mirror to check out my makeup, like I’m trying to see how it looks with every expression. I think I’ve done okay with the eyeshadow and blush. I suck at doing anything fancy with my hair, so it’s just blow-dried straight and put in a low ponytail. My lipstick game is fierce tonight—a bright coral that matches one of the colors of my dress.
I think evenThea would approve. Rosie, of course, would want to add glitter.
I miss them like crazy. I’ve never been away from them for longer than one night, and I’m dying to tell them about the gowns and the tiaras and riding horses and arriving in a carriage.
Okay, maybe notallabout the carriage.
I look at the clock on the dresser. Crap. I need to get down there, and I don’t even have my dress on. It’s lying on my bed, behind the white ruffly fabric that drapes down from the canopy, which makes me feel like I’m sleeping inside a very luxurious mosquito net.The bed is ridiculous—complete with pale pink silk bedding and matching, lacy-edged pillows—but I have to admit, it adds to the whole insane experience.
I take off my fluffy bathrobe and pull on the dress. It’s one of my favorites that I brought. Less poofy than the first one, but still gorgeous. It’s got a halter top that dips low in the front and especially low in the back. Sexy, but not so much I’d be embarrassed for my kids to see me in it. Really, I think it looks elegant—silk fabric in a gorgeous floral pattern, fitting slim at the top and waist, with a floor-length skirt.
My mother-in-law got tears in her eyes and said I looked like I should be on the red carpet. She might have been overstating that, but the confidence boost isn’t bad to have right now.
I hook the halter part around my neck and zip up the back. Or I try to, at least—the zipper catches. Hard.
I tug it as gently as possible, but nothing.
Shit.This dress may have a low back, but I don’t want it to bethatlow. I’m not exactly looking to snag the tiara based on my half-exposed ass crack.
Now I try zipping it back down, but it won’t go that way, either.Trying to shimmy it off my hips does nothing more than strain the fabric.
Oh god. I’m stuck in a very expensive dress, and I’m not sure I can wiggle out of it, especially without breaking the zipper completely.
I feel myself sweating against the silk. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but that searing fear of judgment is back in all its irrational glory. I can’t go down there with my ass flapping in the wind; I can’t be the girl who is just trying to draw attention to herself, or who is so incompetent she can’t get dressed. I can’t have the cameras on me during something as stupid as this.
What did you think was going to happen, Becca?I can almost hear Rob ask.
I breathe deep, trying to calm myself. If I can find someone up here to help . . . One of the other girls, maybe, or one of the female producers. Or hell, a sound crew person, female or male. Given how tight many of these girls’ dresses are, they’re used to getting up close and personal to attach a mic pack.
I don’t hear anything from the hallway. Everyone must be downstairs already.
What am I going to do? What am I—?
There’s a knock at the door and I jump.
“Hey Becks? Are you ready yet?” It’s Nate, and I am both beyond relieved to hear his voice and also suddenly flushed for a very different reason.
Could I lethimhelp me with my wardrobe malfunction? Would it seem like some obvious ploy, some desperate attempt to—
He knocks again. “Becks?”
What else am I going to do?
“I’m here, just a sec,” I say, my voice sounding panicky. I close my eyes.
You could ask him to get someone else, the rational part of my brain whispers. But that’s when I know I don’t want to listen to the rational part of my brain.
Maybe I could see ifhewants to get someone else to help me. Maybe I want to see if he really is so uninterested.
Or maybe I just want to pretend for a few seconds that his hands on me could mean anything.
Shit, I think,this is a bad idea.
But then I open the door.
