The boutique smells like fresh peonies and old money, with soft lighting that makes everything and everyone look airbrushed. Gowns float on gold racks like works of art, each one silk, lace, or tulle in delicate shades of ivory and blush. Velvet chairs, marble accents, and champagne flutes complete the fantasy, while soft French jazz plays in the background. Even the mirrors are flattering, which feels borderline criminal.
Abigail instantly brightens, scanning the racks like she’s stepped onto the runway. A skinny blond man with overly gelled hair and a name tag that says Troy practically skips toward us.
“Abigail, babe! It’s been forever!” Troy squeals. When he gets close enough, they both start air-kissing like seasoned professionals.
“I know, I was out of town, but I’m back, and I need two gorgeous gowns for the Irish Masquerade ball,” Abby announces dramatically, pulling me close. “One for me, and one for my baby sis here.”
Troy gasps like he’s just spotted royalty. “Oh my God, you two look so much alike, I could die! Are you actually going to the Emerald Veil ball?! I heard Cillian O’Malley is attending this year. Ugh, I hate you. I love you, but I hate you, you lucky bitch.”
I have no idea who Cillian O’Malley is, but this conversation is highly entertaining.
“I’d hate me too if I weren’t me,” Abby tosses back, and the two of them air-kiss again, so aggressively I think I hear a neck crack.
I watch, fascinated. This isn’t some new version of Abby. She’s always been loud, sparkly, and magnetic like this. Blair Waldorf was her fictional soulmate, and honestly, she looks damn good in this world.
“Alright, let me grab you girls some champagne,” Troy says, already spinning toward the back. “In the meantime, browse! Touch everything! Live your best couture life!”
Abby turns to me, eyes wide with excitement. “You ready for your Pretty Woman moment?”
I don’t get a chance to answer before she pulls me toward a row of gowns that look like they cost more than my college tuition. Abigail is talking about colors and fabrics. I’m only half-listening. My fingers slip into my pocket and brush against the black card.
The dress I’ll be taking off you.
I can’t use this card with Abby watching. If she sees it, she’ll know. The one she gave me is a plain blue Visa. The one Calvin gave me is black, sleek, heavy, unmistakable. Amex.
I should’ve gone dress shopping before she came back. But of course, I was too… occupied.
“Try this one,” Abigail says, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts as she hands me a dress with a dramatic flourish.
I disappear into the dressing room, slipping into it. It’s a striking red, off-the-shoulder number, cute, but too short. One wrong move and I’ll be giving everyone more of a show than I bargained for.
Just as I start to shimmy out of it, Abby yells, “Don’t you dare take it off before I see it!”
I roll my eyes before reluctantly stepping out to find her lounging with a glass of champagne in her hand, Troy perched beside her. They both give me the once-over.
“You look beautiful,” she says.
“I look like a hooker,” I protest, tugging the hem that insists on crawling higher with every breath.
“An expensive hooker,” Troy quips, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Come on, you look fashionable!” Abby insists, which only deepens my frown.
“I feel like, since I’m the oneactuallygoing to fashion school, I should be the one deciding what looks fashionable,” I say, crossing my arms.
She rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m your…” She falters for a beat, but I know where this is going, “Older sister, and you have to do what I say.”
“Wow. Great comeback. But I don’t think that’s how that works…”
“Well, it is. So deal with it. Now get back in there and try this one on.” She hands me another hanger with a grin.
And so it begins.
Dress after dress, I model for my sister, who sits perchedon a velvet chair like some sparkly queen, champagne in hand, chatting with Troy like they’re the hosts of their own chaotic fashion talk show. Troy keeps appearing with more gowns and dramatic commentary, gasping at my waistline, twirling me, and adjusting straps like it’s a red-carpet emergency.
There’s a champagne glass in my hand now. I don’t even remember when that happened.
I try on a sleek black column dress, a blush feathered one that makes me look like a flamingo, and a gown with dramatic tulle sleeves that basically swallow my arms whole.
