Chapter 13 Scarlett #2
Carmen guides me toward the fitting area while Isabella follows, her heels clicking across the polished tile. “We have so much to discuss, Scarlett. The bridal shower, bachelorette party, rehearsal dinner—”
“Stop, Mom. You’re overwhelming her.” Carmen halts in the middle of a vast showroom layered in velvet sofas, tufted ottomans, and gilded mirrors stretching from floor to ceiling.
As soft piano music plays in the background, my mind is spinning at the scene in front of me: racks of sparkling wedding dresses and a seamstress standing in the center holding approximately twenty pins in her lips as she pins Jaz’s hemline.
Jaz catches my eye in the mirror and grins. “We were just saying this place needed someone sane.”
“Stop moving!” the seamstress commands around a mouthful of pins before noticing me. “I take it this is the backup bridesmaid?”
The seamstress passes a gown to Brendan’s mom, who holds it against my body before adjusting her glasses to get a good look. The blush-pink gown is actually quite beautiful, with its shimmering bodice and flowing, tiered skirt. Too bad Laila won’t get a chance to wear it, because it’s stunning.
“Is she too skinny for the dress?” Isabella asks the seamstress. “We can feed her more before the wedding.” Then she spins around, searching for her son. “Brendan, why don’t you feed your girlfriend?”
“I eat plenty,” I protest with a laugh.
Aunt Elana circles me next. “I think she has the curves to pull off the dress.” Then turns me toward her nephew. “Brendan, what do you think?”
Brendan’s ears go violently red. “I think”—he clears his throat—“that Scarlett looks perfect in anything. And I am not qualified to comment further.”
Rosa hobbles over to join the other women, before nodding approvingly. “I remember when I had a figure like that. Sure do miss those days.”
“She’s got the perfect figure.” Isabella gives me a once-over, before leaning in with a whisper, “You’ll have beautiful babies.”
My face catches fire. “We’re not—”
“Of course not, yet!” Isabella jumps in. “But someday, right? Preferably after the wedding.”
“MOM,” Carmen interrupts, her eyebrows rising to her hairline. “Can we focus on MY wedding first? The one that’s happening in a few weeks?”
“Right, right, of course!” Isabella hands me the gown. “Fingers crossed that it fits.”
Carmen takes my arm and guides me toward the fitting rooms. “Don’t mind them,” she whispers as we walk. “They’re excited. We don’t get new people in the family very often, and they really like you.”
“But we just started dating.”
“I know, but you’ve known me and Bren since we were teenagers.” She ushers me into a large dressing room. “Besides, my brother’s never brought anyone to family events before. That says everything.”
He’s never brought anyone home before? That hardly seems likely.
Undressing first, I slide the straps over my shoulders, step into the gown, and suck in a breath as I shimmy the zipper up as far as I can reach. Then I turn to the mirror.
Either this dress is a miracle fit, or it’s a sign I’m meant to be a bridesmaid. The dress is light and shimmery under the lights, with a fitted, low-cut bodice that skims my waist before falling into layers of flowing fabric.
When I emerge from the fitting room, the entire room falls silent.
“That,” Isabella says in a whispered hush, “is absolutely beautiful on you.”
“You pull it off better than Laila ever could,” Aunt Elana says bluntly.
When I turn toward the mirror, I catch Brendan staring, his eyes locked on me across the boutique, and my heart stutters under his gaze.
He watches silently, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, but I see his throat move as he swallows.
Carmen strides over, clapping her hands. “It was meant for you.” She whirls around to find her brother. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous, Brendan?”
His gaze traces down my dress before snapping up, making my breath catch. “Yeah. She does.”
“Thanks,” I say, moving next to Brendan’s sister. “But I think the bride should be the focus of today. I don’t want to upstage her.”
“Oh, please.” Carmen waves me off with a laugh. “No one could upstage me.”
Rosa comes over and fiddles with the neckline of the gown. “The hem is too long, and I think we could use a bit more cleavage.”
My eyes widen. “Uh…what?”
Elana tilts her head. “Lower her neckline, and her boobs are going to be the star of the show.”
Carmen snorts. “Aunt Elana!”
“Well, I always say…if you’ve got it, flaunt it!” Grandma Rosa adds with a decisive nod.
“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly, hiking the straps up. “Really. I’m happy with the neckline where it is.”
Brendan clears his throat. Every Marco woman pivots toward him at once. “I don’t think she needs to change a thing,” he says, tone final.
I silently mouth, thank you, while Brendan escapes to a wing chair in the far corner, trying to get some distance.
“So, Scarlett,” Isabella says, giving me an appraising look. “How long do you think it’s good to date someone before you get married?”
Everyone knows there’s nothing hypothetical about this question. “I think it depends on the couple.”
“Young people today take forever to make decisions,” Rosa laments. “In my day, you dated six months and got married.”
“Times were different then,” Elana points out. “What I want to know is how you two got together after all these years. When do we hear that story?”
“Aunt Elana, we’ll discuss that later,” Brendan warns from his seat, saving me from having to make something up on the spot.
Isabella leans in to tell Elana, “You know, when they were teenagers, everyone could see it. Remember how he used to stare at her at the beach, Carmen?”
“Oh, I remember,” Carmen adds with a knowing smile. “It was so obvious how my brother felt about you, Scarlett.”
I look at Brendan in the mirror with raised eyebrows. This is news to me, but he just looks away uncomfortably.
“Done,” the seamstress interrupts, standing up from her hem work. “You can change back now.”
By the time I reach the dressing room, I realize there’s no way I can unzip this dress by myself. When I turn around, I run into Brendan with his tux in hand, his jaw clenching. Judging by how pale he’s gone, this entire conversation has made him physically ill.
“Scarlett, I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’ll talk to my family about what just happened out there.”
He sounds distressed about the entire situation. I’m only his friend, not his actual girlfriend. Even if I thought I caught something in his expression earlier, he’s made it clear what role I’m playing for this event.
But deep down, some part of me enjoys the fantasy of belonging to this family—likes imagining what we could’ve been if things had turned out differently. Isabella greets me like family, asks questions, and remembers details about my life. I didn’t realize I’d been missing that.
Mom used to be more like that before Dad got sick and their world became hospital visits and medication schedules. I don’t blame her. But I’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone’s full attention.
“Just help me out with the zipper,” I say, turning my back and lifting my hair. “Just enough so I can reach it.”
Men like Brendan Marco don’t choose me.
“Scarlett—” There’s something pained in his voice.
“Please,” I whisper, shame coloring my cheeks. “The zipper.”
I know I don’t belong here with his family. His uncle made that clear years ago—the night of the accident when I waited for Brendan in the hospital lobby and Rafael told me to go home. I’ve never forgotten.
Through the door, I can hear the women still discussing us like we’re actually a couple. They’re building a future that doesn’t exist for two people who are barely even friends. I don’t know if our relationship will survive this test. It certainly didn’t survive all those years ago.
Brendan’s fingers curl around the zipper, then stop. When I glance back, his gaze is fixed on my bare back, his jaw tight and his eyes dark.
And I don’t understand. Not when he’s made it clear that he only sees me as a friend.
“Brendan?” I whisper.
He clears his throat. “Sorry—” His voice comes out low and rough.
He swallows, then finally, I feel the zipper give way. His fingers slide down my spine slowly, making heat pool in my belly. I fix my eyes on the floor, trying—and failing—to ignore how much his touch affects me, when we both know exactly where the line between us is supposed to be.
“There,” he says roughly, pausing the zipper halfway down my back. “Do you want me to…” He hesitates. “…stop?”
Don’t stop touching me, I want to blurt so badly, it takes everything in me not to. Instead, I bite down on my lip and nod.
“Okay…” He hesitates, like he’s waiting for me to say something different.
Don’t turn around, Scarlett, I command myself. If you do, your face will betray everything. He wanted a fake girlfriend who wouldn’t develop feelings. And I’m breaking that cardinal rule.
“I’ll just go, then,” he says quietly, backing away.
As much as I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, the joke’s on me.
Because they just did.