14. Leah
14
Leah
I have no desire to go to this event. So, why am I going again? Oh right—Paula’s a friend, not to mention the dozens and dozens of rolls she’s ordered for her work party next month.
Ugh.
Is there any way to keep her as a client and a friend and skip out on her wedding?
Nope, there is not.
Okay, I’ll go, but I’m wearing whatever I want. “My slacks are fine–” I say over speakerphone.
“No.” Geez Louise, Andrea is quick to cut me off. “Not okay. You remember that PJ will most likely be there, right?”
I moan. “If I’m invited, he is. We both worked on catering Paula’s work party last year.”
“Which is exactly why black slacks and your red tennies aren’t going to cut it.”
“I don’t understand why you can’t be my plus one.”
“I already told you,” she says, and all at once, there is a knock at my door. Andrea just keeps talking as I cautiously approach my front entrance. I have no idea who would be visiting me today. The introverted part of my brain would like to ignore that knock. “Mitch got these tickets months ago. He’d kill me if I bowed out now.”
“Even for your bestie?” I need backup.
“Even for my bestie. He’s been waiting his entire grown-up life to see Crimson Riot in person.”
I’ve never heard of Mitch’s indie band until recently. Did he make up his undying love just to make my life harder… Okay, that’s crazy. He wouldn’t. But I’m searching for any scenario that gets my bestie to go to this event with me.
I peek through the peephole of my front door. “Hey!” I yelp, turning back to Andrea inside my phone.
“Yeah, it’s me. Open up.” I look through the peephole one more time. She’s holding a long black bag and a pair of red heels.
“What are you doing here?” I fling open my door, hope sparking in my chest. Maybe Andrea has decided that I’m more important than Mitch, and she’s here to save me after all.
“I’m here to deliver you from your black slack and red tennis shoes-wearing hide.”
My brows furrow, confused.
“I brought a dress!”
Tossing back my head, I groan. This event is only getting worse. “And shoes? I’m not wearing those things,” I say, referring to the heels in her hand. “You know I don’t wear heels.”
“You do tonight. You cannot wear this dress with tennis shoes.”
“Why do I have to go again?” I know the answer. I have been reciting the answer to myself all night. But on the off chance I am wrong, I ask anyway .
“Because Paula was a big client of Bites and Bubbles. Because she’s become a friend. And because now she wants six dozen cinnamon rolls for her next work party from Sweet Swirls. We need this, Leah. You know it.”
I do know it. “Oh, right.” My nose wrinkles as I look Andrea’s zipped black garment bag up and down. “But I can ditch right after the ceremony, right?”
“Yes. The wedding boat will be docked. So, right after you give the bride a hug and wish her congratulations, you have my permission to get the heck out of dodge.” Andrea nods emphatically.
At least there’s that. At least I don’t have to mingle. I can wear a dress. And possibly… maybe even… heels, if necessary, for one hour. One .
“Okay,” Andrea says, her fingers on the zipper of that long garment bag. “This is going to make your ex want to jump right off that reception boat for giving you up. I promise.”
I slip my phone into my pocket and rub my hands together. “I like the sound of that.”
“Me too. In fact, when it happens, I want a video.” Andrea tugs the zipper down but she doesn’t reveal the dress right away. “This was the bridesmaid dress for my second cousin’s wedding.”
“The one that left you feeling… exposed?” I cringe, staring at her. I never actually saw the dress, but Andrea had described it as too sexy to wear with your grandma around . “I can’t wear that.”
“Sure you can.” Andrea opens up the bag to red, soft, and strappy.
I swallow–and I’m lucky I don’t choke. “Whoa.”
She pulls the long dress out and waggles her eyebrows at me. “PJ is toast.”
I peer at the slinkiest thing I’ve ever seen—it’s pretty, maybe even beautiful, but I can’t remember the last time I wore a sexy dress.
I look at my friend, the girl intended for this dress, and curl my lip. “Um, one problem.”
“What? You’re a six, I’m a six.”
“Yeah, you’re a six without a booty.”
“I have a booty.”
“No, you have a butt,” I say. “ I have a booty.”
“What’s the problem? I love all the junk”—she waves her hand in my direction—“in your trunk. Believe me, I wish I had more.”
“This dress is made for you . It isn’t fitting over my junk , Andrea.”
“It is. It will,” she insists. “Stop whining. Here—” Andrea holds out something red and… spandex-y. “This is going to help! It’s your shapewear. It goes with the dress, so you don’t have to wear any underwear.”
“Weird.”
“ Convenient . Plus, it sticks to your body like glue. There’s a gusset, so you don’t even have to take it off to pee.”
“A what?” My brows furrow. What is she getting me into?
“A gusset.”
But that non-explanation isn’t helping. I shake my head. “You’re going to have to try again.”
She sighs. “It’s a pocket sewn into the crotch of the shapewear. You just spread the pocket open to use the bathroom. That way you don’t have to take your clothes off to pee.”
“Like a trap door for urinating?” I frown—that does not sound pretty.
My bestie gives me a fluttering eye roll. “It’s not a trap door. It’s a gusset.”
I wrinkle my nose. I’m sticking with, “ Weird . ”
“Not weird. Stop saying that. It’s handy. Now go in the bathroom and put on the shapewear.”
By shapewear, Andrea means a tiny bodysuit from breasts to bum that sucks in every inch of body it touches. Thankfully, this one-piece undergarment is made to stretch. I tug and pull, somehow getting into the bodysuit all on my own. It sucks in any part of my waist and torso that even thought of wrinkling. And there is indeed a trap door down there. Holy mashed potato .
How a girl holds that open and pees without causing a disaster is beyond me.
I remind myself–I just need one hour. I can go one hour without peeing.
I exit the bathroom in Andrea’s shapewear. Time for step two. Which I already know with the feel of that dress is going to be a two-man job. Red, strappy, and sexy, but no stretch. Five breathless minutes later, that dress is over my head and gathered around my hips, causing one booty traffic jam.
“It’s going—” Andrea huffs. “To be—” She puffs. “Amazing.”
She tugs at the ends of the dress with each and every one of her words and—finally—success! The dress, while tight, is now in place.
“Whoa,” Andrea says, standing back to take me in. “That’s…” She shakes her head. “You look good, girl.”
I face the full-length mirror in my bedroom and tilt my head. “I don’t look bad.”
Andrea rolls her eyes. “Your booty looks crazy good.”
It kind of does.
“Here.” Her brows lift and she holds out the strappy red heels—they match the strappy back of this dress perfectly.
I mean, I don’t dress up often, but this dress… it might be worth killing my feet in high heels–for an hour.
Andrea is completely out of breath when my phone—in the pocket of my jeans, lying on my bed—rings. I wrangle the phone from my lifeless jeans pocket and peer down at the screen.
Mom. A FaceTime call. I glance at my friend. “Mom wants to see what I’m wearing too.”
“See, I’m not the only one who cares. We both love you.” Andrea heaves out a sigh. Apparently getting me into this dress has been her workout for the day.
I open up my cell and answer Mama’s call. “Hola, Mama.”
“Hi, Mrs. B.,” Andrea says, waving just behind me.
“Please tell me you talked her out of the pants, Andrea.”
“Better.” Andrea gives her two big thumbs up. “I brought her a dress to wear.”
“Ooo!” Mom hoots. “Set the phone down. Step back. I want to see.”
So, I do. But I have to leave in seven minutes—this can’t be a long fashion show. My beautiful Puerto Rican mother is staring me down, judging me through the four-inch screen of my smartphone. “Turn around,” she says.
Andrea snickers beside me.
“Mama, really?” It’s not as if I could get out of this dress and into something else in seven minutes. This is what I’ll be wearing, Camila Bradford approved or not.
But my fierce little mother isn’t finished with me yet. “Just turn around. Give me a complete view. I have a good feeling about this.”
Andrea pokes her head into view. “You’re going to love it Mrs. B. Strappy and sexy!”
I sigh, then spin for the camera, giving Mom one quick view of Andrea’s strappy red dress. This dress says, Hey, girl, you need to look good tonight. Your ex may be at this reception. It’s also a dress that says, No peeing allowed. Not until you’re ready to hang this bad boy up in the closet.
“Whew!” Mom whistles. “You are a hottie, mija.”
I swallow—and I am happy to report that Andrea’s dress does allow for swallowing.
“She is. Mega hottie,” Andrea says. “I should go,” she says to me. “Mitch and Crimson Riot are waiting.”
“Go,” I tell her, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “And thanks, Andrea.” She really is the best friend a girl could ask for—I mean, aside from that whole setting me up with Cooper Bailey thing, she’s the perfect friend.
“Adiós, sweet girl,” Mom calls to Andrea before her ear-splitting screech of “Zeek!” rings through the air. Her eyes aren’t on her phone; she’s watching for my father. “Zeek, come look at your daughter! She’s wearing a dress that may actually get us some grandbabies!”
I hear Andrea give one last snicker before shutting the door behind her.
“Mama!” I hiss. “Stop that, or I’m hanging up.”
“Wait now,” I hear Dad call. “Don’t go yet. I need to see this dress.” My dad, with his pale skin, round glasses, and graying hair, looks a decade older than my mother with her wild brown curls—so much like my own—and her bright orange Hello Kitty T-shirt.
I cross my arms over my chest, knowing I’ll slap on a cardigan and hide my shoulders, my back, and the peek of cleavage this dress offers the minute we hang up the phone.
“Well, don’t you look pretty,” Dad says.
I nibble on my lip, knowing I’ll have to redo my lipstick before I go.
“Yes, you look like a girl who’d make any boy beg for forgiveness,” Dad says with a nod.
“Ay!” Mom smacks his shoulder with the back of her hand. “We do not want that cocky boy back. No. No. No more PJ.”
“Mom’s right, Dad. I am not looking for any reconciliations.”
“No,” Mom says with a jerked nod. “We just want to make him cry. Let him see what he gave up. Let him suffer?—”
“ Mother .” I groan. “No suffering, no crying.” Though I wouldn’t mind seeing PJ cry a little. Or a lot. Still, I’m a grown-up. I can attempt to behave like one. “It’s just a dress. It’s just a wedding. I’m not even sure I want to go.”
“Of course you’re going. Don’t you dare not go because of him .”
“I’m going.” For one measly hour.
“She could make all those other boys apologize too,” my father says, two steps behind.
“Zeek,” Mama snaps. “What are you talking about?”
“The other boys. You know,” he says. “There was that one in high school she liked, but then?—”
Mom groans. “We aren’t talking about Rob.”
Nope, my one and only boyfriend from high school doesn’t cross my mind much.
“There was that other one, too,” Dad says—and I’m so thrilled we’ve decided to talk about every single man who’s ever wronged me at this moment. “You know, the one who did the little dance?—"
My mother sighs—loudly. “Cooper Bailey sang to her. He sang a song because of course mija was the prettiest girl at that prom. And then the jealousy began.”
“I was in cooking club, Mother. No one was jealous of me.” Nope, they were just mean. And Cooper sang to me by accident . Not because he liked me. Certainly not because I was too pretty. Why are we talking about this again ?
“Well, we aren’t talking about any of those boys. Geez, Zeek, where is your head? PJ Booker is a monstrosity, and we are happy to be rid of him. We are sticking it to him tonight.”
“We’re not sticking it to anyone,” I say–but my words are pointless. She’s already boiling. No stopping it now.
“I never liked that boy,” Mom growls.
“You gave him Abuela’s bread recipe and taught him how Abuelo used Sofrito in his stew,” I deadpan.
“Because you liked him! Not because I did!” She holds a hand to her chest, proclaiming her innocence.
I sigh. “Okay, I have to go.”
“But Leah, my love,” Mom coos.
“I’ll be late, Mother.”
“Okay, go, go. Keep your hair down! And no sweaters! I know you, mija. I swear, if you put a sweater on?—”
“Mom,” I groan.
“Leah,” she pleads through my smartphone screen. “For once, show off what the Good Lord gave you!”