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“Well?” she asked, facing the mirror.
“That’s the one.”
“You didn’t even see the others I picked.” She frowned.
“I don’t give a fuck about the other ones. That’s the dress.”
She ran her hand along the slit. “It’s not too much?”
“Not at all.”
She tugged at it, trying to close it up. “What if I get it tailored to—”
“Baby.” Her eyes shot up to meet mine in the mirror. “I’m telling you that’s the dress.”
She bit her bottom lip and looked at herself in the mirror. She stopped messing with the slit. “Alright.”
She went back to change and I sat there, watching the curtain close behind her. Whatever my father was hiding and whatever Solomon was trying to do would still be there when I was ready to deal with it.
I copped Belle a pair of shoes and a bag to go with her dress. We were both hungry, so she found a small Mexican restaurant around the corner for lunch. It was one of those places that really leaned into the kitschy vibe—brightly colored flags were strung from the ceiling, with sombreros, and vintage posters filling the walls.
She slid her shopping bags under the table and picked up the menu.
Our waiter came over with two cups and a pitcher of water. “Hey there, welcome to Taco Cantina. Can I get you guys started with any drinks?”
“I’ll have a guava margarita,” Belle said. “Oh! And chips with a side of guac.”
“Lemme get a Dos Equis.”
The waiter jotted down our orders. “I’ll turn those in for you. My name is Walker, if y’all need anything else.”
He took off and Belle set her menu down, looking at me with a serious expression. “What’s the real reason you asked me to this charity event?”
“Why does there have to be an ulterior motive?”
“Cardez, please don’t insult me.” She folded her arms on the table. “You’re intentional with everything. So…what is it?”
I ran my tongue across my teeth, deciding how much to tell her. There was no point in feigning innocence. “My father’s been on my ass about getting married lately and keeping up appearances in the business world—it looks good if you look like you’re building a family unit.”
“That’s pretty antiquated.”
I shrugged. “Old money shit.”
“So, I’m your placeholder?” she asked, picking up her water.
“You’re my date.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A placeholder would be somebody I don’t want there.”
The waiter came back with our drinks and chips. She picked up her margarita and took a sip.
“He doesn’t know you’re bringing me,” she said.
“Nope.”
“And when he sees you walk in with a bad bitch with presumably no monied connections—”
