Chapter 19 Rose
I’m silently seething when I get back to my room.
The garment bag is where I left it, hanging in the bathroom.
I hook it over the shower curtain rod and unzip it slowly.
God, it’s a stunning dress. Sparkling emerald, a gorgeous cut—against all that lush resort greenery out there, it’s going to look like it was made for this place.
I’m genuinely excited to wear it. I unhook the straps from the hanger, and that’s when I notice how small it is. I give the material a tug. Silk with a chiffon overlay. No stretch, no give. My throat tightens as I check the back for a size tag.
I should have tried this dress on sooner. I should have made sure it would fit. Pearl texted me a month ago, confirmed my size, and I just left it at that, assuming it would be fine.
I mean, yeah, I've gained a few pounds recently. Sitting around Easton’s apartment feeling sorry for myself, eating cheesecake didn’t help. But I didn’t gain that much.
I unzip the back of the dress and step in. And I know immediately it isn’t going to fit. I shimmy anyway, stopping just before the seam rips at my thighs. It’s a size two, maybe. I’m a twelve.
I set it down on the counter and blink at myself in the mirror for a moment, trying very hard not to look down and examine my body, inspecting every extra inch. Was there this much cellulite this morning? Did I always have all those stretch marks on my thighs?
My body is mine. Pearl doesn’t have to love it. But she knew exactly what size to get me that would make me question, even for a moment, if I deserved to wear such a beautiful dress.
My mind whirls. I leave the dress where it is, then hurry over to the bed and dump my bag out.
Jeans and t-shirts. The Georgia Peach softball tournament shirt and matching shorts Marco gave me.
I glance over at my dress from last night, still crumpled on the narrow table below the TV.
I cross the room and pick it up. It’s dry, but the wine stain is still there, faint and pink from Sunshine’s scrubbing. There’s no way I can wear it tonight.
I pull my jeans and t-shirt back on, then sit on the edge of the bed with the bridesmaid dress in my lap.
“Why do I keep letting her do this to me?” I say it out loud, to no one. Pearl doesn’t make mistakes. This was intentional.
This is why we don’t interact. Why I barely responded when she texted asking for my size.
When I was younger, I tried with her. I really did.
But after her breakup with Easton, she turned on me completely, and eventually I just let go—of caring what she thought, of trying to be her friend, her sister.
There’s a knock on the door. I know it’s Logan, because no one else would come. I swing it open. At least I’m not on the verge of crying anymore.
Still, he takes one look at me and says, “What’s wrong?”
My heart breaks a little at that. Logan, who I’ve known for two days, reads me better than anyone in my family ever has.
“The dress doesn’t fit.”
“Huh?”
I step back, and he comes in, eyes moving from the dress in my hand to the pile of clothes on the bed to my face. He takes the dress from me and holds it up.
“This?”
I nod.
“It doesn’t fit?” he asks in surprise, in a way only a sweet, clueless guy would.
“No, it doesn’t. It’s like a size two. I’m… not that.”
“Are you sure?”
“I would very much like to punch you in the face right now. Yes, of course I’m sure.”
Ignoring my snark, his expression of concern curdles into something harder. “Pearl got this for you?”
I nod.
He actually bares his teeth, then turns and storms toward the door. I fling myself at him, grabbing his arm with both hands. “Stop. What are you doing?”
“She can’t just do this shit to you!”
“Logan.”
He stops. Turns. His jaw is tight, eyes still hot with anger.
“What are you going to say? She got the wrong size? I didn’t try the dress on. She ordered it a month ago. She’ll say it’s my fault because I didn’t check to make sure it fit. And she’d be right about that.”
His shoulders drop, eyes softening. In any other circumstance, I’d love the look he’s giving me. Tender care. It’s a look I could get used to. “Is there a chance it was a mistake? I’m not defending her,” he says quickly. “I mean—ten sizes. That’s—”
“Deliberate. Yeah.” I take the dress back from him and sit down hard on the edge of the bed, the silk pooling in my lap. “I don’t have anything to wear. Forget the pictures, I don’t have anything nice for the wedding.”
He stares at me, his mind working. Then he pulls his phone out, taps it, puts it to his ear. It rings a few times before he says, “Is Sunshine with you?”
I hear a deep voice on the other line, but can’t make out the words.
“Rose needs her help. She needs a dress.” He briefly explains the situation, and I listen to my story reiterated—wrong size, no backup, wedding in a few hours—and it sounds both more and less catastrophic than it feels.
Dash complains on the other end. I hear something about the storm. Then Sunshine’s voice cuts over his, which I take as agreement. Logan thanks her and hangs up.
“Come on.”
He takes my hand and marches me out of the room. Only then do I notice his hair is damp, and he’s half-dressed in his groomsmen tux, missing the tie and jacket. It fits him like a glove—tailored, I’d guess, down to the inch. I bet Pearl took measurements.
A few minutes pass before Sunshine and Dash join us in the lobby. Dash argues with Logan about us driving in the storm, gesturing at the wall of windows and the rain coming down sideways. Sunshine ignores them both, takes my hand, and says, “Brace yourself.”
We make a run for it. Outside, the wind is mean, and we hold our hands up against the sharp rain. A vintage VW Beetle is idling in the turnaround, butter-yellow, wipers going. One of the resort workers waves Sunshine toward it and calls out to drive safe.
Once we’re tucked inside—the storm muffled now, the windows already fogging at the edges—I turn to her.
“That was convenient.”
“I called ahead.” She checks her mirrors, unbothered. “Perks of having friends who work here. Jay’s manning the lot, but with the resort closed off for the wedding and the weather keeping everyone in, he’s basically just sitting on his hands.”
“Why doesn’t he just go home?”
She side-eyes me. “The man needs a paycheck, storm or no storm. Besides. Free valet.”
I sink back against the seat. “Sorry. Thank you for this. Logan didn’t really get into the details—”
“Your bridesmaid dress is the wrong size, and your only other dress is stained with wine.”
“Yep. That about sums it up.”
“Well, most of the local shops are closed because of the storm, but Raúl’s little sister is about your size. I texted her, and she said you can borrow something.”
“Wow. That’s… incredibly kind. And generous. And damn, you work fast.”
Sunshine grins, then puts the car into gear. She drives the manual like a pro, one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick.
“Should we be doing this?” I ask as we cross the bridge, a wave crashing up through the grating beneath us.
“We’ll be fine. We’re not getting the full hurricane, we won’t get more water than this. Still, we should be quick.” She glances at the ocean, then back at the road. “Storm should break by tonight, though. It’ll be clear by tomorrow, I reckon.”
Downtown West Whale Bay is quiet and storm-shuttered, streets empty and running with water into pools at the shoulders, signs wobbling on their posts in the wind.
Sunshine tells me she grew up here, and I can see why she drives it like she owns it—taking turns without slowing, cutting through a neighborhood of low stucco houses with terracotta roofs and wrought-iron window grates, bright flowers and vines pressed flat against the walls by the wind.
It’s pretty, even now. Modest but cared-for.
She pulls up to a small apartment building and parks half in the driveway, the rear of the Beetle nosing out into the empty road.
“Is this okay?” I yell over the rain as I follow her inside.
“Sure!”
I’m laughing to myself as we hurry up the steps, feeling my clothes cling to my skin.
Maria, Raúl’s sister, opens the door before we even knock.
Though I only saw Raúl in passing, I can see the resemblance—same thick dark hair, big brown eyes, same easy confidence in the way she holds herself.
Where Raúl was thin and lanky, though, Maria’s got curves. We’re definitely the same size.
After a brief explanation, Maria is surprisingly undeterred by the strange story.
She just nods, as if women showing up soaking wet at her door asking to borrow a dress is a perfectly normal Saturday, and waves us inside.
Her apartment is small and warm, smelling of coffee and something savory, with a muted TV on in the corner.
She takes me straight to her closet, talking a mile a minute, asking questions which Sunshine answers for me, holding dresses up to my form, one after another, tilting her head, discarding them as she and Sunshine decide together which is best.
Eventually, they land on a red dress. I protest the color—it’s too bold, way too much—but both women talk over me simultaneously.
“Just try it on. I will not hear no,” Maria says, fixing me with a look that makes it clear this is not a negotiation. I take the dress from her and glance around the room. She’s the same height as me, but somehow far more intimidating.
“Can you turn around?” I ask.
She and Sunshine exchange an amused look, but both turn obligingly. Then they start gossiping, something about Dash, and I tune them out. Peeling off the wet clothes is unpleasant, but the moment I pull the red dress up over my hips, I already know I’m going to wear it.
It fits me as well as my dress from last night. But where that one was elegant and pretty, this one is sexy and bold. It makes a statement.
It’s tight, but the material gives with every movement, and though it’s full length, there’s a slit up one leg that flashes when I shift my weight. I’m still adjusting the bust, turning slightly toward the mirror, when both women turn around and gasp.
“That’s the one—”
“It’s perfect!”
I smile, feeling much like I did when I tried on my other dress in that vintage shop. A little better in my skin, a little like everything is not as bad as it seems.
“Honey, this dress was made for you,” Maria says, pressing her hands together like she’s proud of herself, which, honestly, she should be.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I promise I’ll stay away from red wine, and I’ll make sure it gets right back to you.”
Maria’s brows scrunch. “Red wine?”
Sunshine waves her off as they both leave the room so I can change again.
“Okay, we gotta go,” she says when I’m done. She and Maria embrace quickly, and then Maria squeezes my hand at the door and winks, telling me it’s her lucky dress.
A few minutes later we’re back on the road, the rain still coming down hard, and Sunshine takes it slow on the way back. We’re the only two idiots on the road, so that helps.
“You’ve been so kind,” I tell her. “You barely know me.”
She shrugs one shoulder, eyes on the road. “You needed help.”
“Still. Thank you.”
She glances over. “No need to thank me. Pay it forward.”
“I will.”
Back in the lobby, dripping again, we pause before going our separate ways.
“So you and Dash,” I say. “It seems serious.”
She stops. Her mouth opens slightly, and for the first time she looks genuinely caught off guard—slightly off-kilter, unlike the confident, carefree woman I’ve come to know.
Then she smiles, almost sadly. “If it’s meant to be, we’ll be.” Before I can respond, she hurries off.
I rush back to my room to get ready. Logan told me he’d find Jo and tell her to continue pictures without me. At this rate, I’ll just make the wedding on time.