“Wow!” my roommate exclaims. I giggle nervously.
“Why are you laughing? You look fabulous.”
“I look like a little girl dressing up.”
“I’m pretty sure your cousin wore this to the Grammys.”
“She might have.”
I honestly don’t know how April pulled it off. Here’s the thing: April and I look a lot alike. We are the same height, dress, and shoe size. We have the same generic, inoffensive features: tiny nose, rosebud mouth, heart-shaped face. If I take pride in any feature, it’s my eyes. I have the same hazel eyes as April. And I happen to know of at least one chart-topping song that mentions her eyes, which are basically my eyes. I always feel a zing of vanity when I hear it on the radio.
However, April’s eyes are not her most striking feature. Nope. She’s known for her dramatic mane of black curly hair. And yes, she cut it short a few years ago. But it’s still gorgeous and artistic. Meanwhile, I have fine, light-brown hair that can’t hold a curl. I’ve never been jealous of my cousin’s fame. (I’ve heard enough stories to make me grateful to be a nobody.) But I am terribly jealous of her hair. Her untamed mass of curls belongs withhaute couturedresses such as the one I’m wearing.
“I don’t think this is the dress for me.”
“That dress is for everyone,” says Char.
“You should try it on, then.”
I don’t need to say another word. In a flash, Char is in her bra and underwear, and I’m passing the dress off to her. Not surprisingly, she rocks the dress. She poses and snaps a million selfies. I try on a gold glittery sequined sheath dress, which is gorgeous, but out sparkles me. I want to wear a dress that makes me shine. Not one where all you notice is the article of clothing. The next one is a black beaded piece that doesn’t look like much on the hanger. It comes with a personal note written by my cousin September, who helped April select and ship the dresses. “This was Mom’s favorite.”
April’s mom died years ago of cancer. She’s my dad’s sister. I’m named after her, and I always admired her. I thought she was so glamorous. I’m often told I look just like her. She even had my not-so-showy baby-fine hair. So maybe this will work. The gown has a pleasurable heft to it. The beads make a soft swooshing sound as I pull it over my head. The moment I look in the mirror, I know. This is the dress. It’s sleeveless with wide straps, a high boat neck, and a low back, but not too low. The beaded black skirt widens and pools on the floor. The gown is an homage to the black dress Audrey Hepburn wore inBreakfast at Tiffany’s. It even comes with similar jewelry, long ropes of pearls and diamond chandelier earrings. The simplicity of the dress suits me. When I clip the earrings on, I can’t help but smile at my reflection.
Char takes one look. “Slay!” She’s still wearing the black and white Alexander McQueen. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to wear that thing in the operating room. She stands behind me, gathers up my hair, and twists it up. “Let me do your hair like this.”
I nod, enchanted by my reflection. So what if Liam Darcy is a player? Two can play at that game. I intend to make the most of this gala. I will be the belle of the ball. I’m going to flirt and flatter, eat all the appetizers, sip all the champagne, and dance the night away. I will be so incredibly charming; he won’t know what hit him and then I will never talk to him again. I break into a sly grin.
“Watch out, Mr. Darcy. I’m going to beat you at your own game.”
He began to wish to know more of her. —Pride and Prejudice
5
Lettie’s roommate answers the door with a knowing smile.
“Hi ... umm... ” I clear my throat. It’s insane how nervous I am. “Is Lettie here?”
“Yes, Loverboy, she’ll be right out.”
“Great. Um... I’m Liam Darcy.” I put out a hand.
“Oh! I know who you are.” I’m not sure what to make of this statement, so I simply nod.
“I’m Char. Great tux, by the way.”
“Thanks.” She studies me with unsettling curiosity. I fear she can see right through me. I desperately need to shift the focus off of me.
“Do you work at UC Davis?” I ask, reading the hospital name on her scrubs.
“Yeah, I’m a surgery resident.”
“Good, good. You might know my aunt, Dr. Debourgh?”
“Dr. Debourgh is your aunt!?” Char takes two steps back. Ha! I’ve surprised the unflappable roommate.
“Please, don’t hold that against me.” I’ve heard plenty of stories from residents about my aunt. None positive.
“Dr. Debourgh is a legend. Sure, she might be a tyrant in the operating room. But she knows her stuff.”
