Chapter 7 #2
I exhale, relieved I can at least respirate in the gold cocktail gown Ada picked out for me, insisting it would highlight the ‘glowy Autumn tones’ in my skin and newly salon cut and dyed hair. Even without seeing myself, I doubt it. I’m sure I look like a literal Oscar statue.
“Go show your friend,” Mila commands. “Right now!”
“Um, I’m not sure—”
“You haven’t seen what you look like yet. Go stand on the dais.”
If the past ninety minutes in Kōwhai & Silk have taught me anything it’s that arguing with Mila is as pointless as steering Ada toward the discount rack. I exit the dressing room, moving carefully in the boutique’s beige demo heels.
“Here she comes,” Ada sings from her chaise lounge. “Miss New Zealand Universe…”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I hiss, avoiding my reflection as I scramble onto the viewing platform. “Also, Mila’s definitely on steroids.”
Ada, who’s been taking full advantage of K&S’s complimentary champagne service, laughs. “If that’s what it takes to get you into a dress that hot, I’ll stack anabolics all day. Look at yourself, you pretty little fool.”
I glance at the mirror and gasp. The gold beading that screamed ‘Vegas Showgirl’ on the hanger has turned subtly luminous against my skin.
The high split makes my legs look endless and the sheer mesh in the neckline somehow gives me full coverage while hoisting my tits higher and rounder than they’ve been since my Year Thirteen formal. An op-tit-cal illusion.
It’s even the right length, a miracle given that I’m six feet tall. Tea-length dresses are my aesthetic by default, but in this floor length ballgown, I look elegant. I look sexy. I look extremely, well, glowy.
“What do you think?” Ada and Mila ask in unison.
I can’t answer. I’m too busy swishing, mesmerized by my reflection. When was the last time I felt this beautiful? Not at my Year Thirteen formal, that’s for sure. Ever?
I want Will to see me in this dress.
The thought comes as clear as a bell. I can see myself gliding into the reunion, the music slowing as a single spotlight catches me. William Upton Sharpe, devastatingly handsome in his dark suit, turns, smiling at me like I’m the only woman in the world...
“Done,” Ada announces. “You just sold yourself a dress, Mila.”
“Fantastic!” Princess Robot-Biceps squeals. “I knew you’d love it.”
“Hang on!” I whirl around. “You’re not my sugar daddy, Adalasia. You can’t just—”
“Buy you a dress that makes you look like a hentai girl? I think you’ll find I can.”
“Hentai girl?” I turn back to the mirror, horrified. “That’s the opposite of what I’m going for!”
“Why? Dudes like hentai. It’s a top porn category.”
“Top porn cate—Ada!” I tug the bodice upward, which only serves to make my tits pop harder. “Not helping.”
“Calm your big, glittery rack. You don’t look like a hentai girl. You look beautiful, and Will Sharpe is going to have an actual pants emergency when he sees you.”
I imagine Will closing his eyes for just a second to try to cope with the sight of me before crossing the room to take my hand like we’re in a Netflix romance original.
Then reality kicks me squarely in my gold-covered butt.
There’s no tag on this dress, which means it probably costs as much as running Afterglow for a week and a half.
“We’ve already picked my three allocated outfits,” I tell Ada, but my fingers betray me, running lightly along one shining strap. Now that it’s on, this showstopper dress is also suspiciously comfortable for something that looks held together with sunbeams and prayers.
“You love it, too,” Ada says. “We’re getting it.”
She raises her credit card into the air and Mila grabs it and runs like someone might tackle her.
My traitorous heart leaps and I chew the inside of my cheek. “I really don’t think you should buy it.”
“Yet, I already have,” Ada says over her champagne glass. “Call it a birthday present if that makes you feel better?”
I adjust the skirt so you can’t see ninety percent of my left thigh. Now that it’s mine, this dress feels way too revealing. “Sure. That’s definitely the equivalent of the birthday present I got you last year.”
“Hey! You can’t put a price on a shortbread portrait of me sitting on a dead guy whilst smoking a blunt.”
“I can actually. Thirty bucks, plus delivery.”
Ada rolls her eyes. “I meant your love, Cecelia. Your priceless, priceless love.”
I groan. Ada’s always been generous to a fault, but at least Cece the nurse could occasionally reciprocate.
Cece the bar owner is forced to lean heavily on handmade gifts and this past five days Ada’s paid for a salon cut and colour, a vitamin C facial, four sets of lingerie, and eyelash extensions.
‘Preparations,’ as Ada calls them, have taken so long, we still haven’t taken any bar photos and she’s still insisting I need a manicure. I need to end the madness now.
But I don’t. Instead, I stay on the Kōwhai & Silk dais, staring at the stranger in the mirror. Me, in my gold dress glowing like I’ve swallowed a lightbulb.
The girl in front of me doesn’t look like someone people only remember because of her brother, or that time she puked before her oral presentation. She’s someone they’d remember for her own sake. Someone worth seeing.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll let you buy the dress and I’ll wear it to the reunion. Thank you.”
“Excellent,” Ada says happily. “I thought you were going to make me hide your clothes so you had to wear it home.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, brown on brown, and I remember the two of us at twenty, smiling the same way as we coloured my hair in the bathroom of Ada’s New York apartment.
We were blasted on vodka, and I’d decided I wanted red streaks in my hair like Hayley Williams from Paramore.
Ada’s roommates all said I was nuts, but Ada walked straight to the chemist and bought two packs of dye.
The streaks turned out hideous, but it was still one of the best nights of my life.
That was before responsibility stuck to us like melting asphalt and became the highway of our lives. But Ada’s still here, supporting my choices even if she doesn’t understand them, like all the times before and all the times to come.
“Thank you,” I repeat, and this time we both know I’m not talking about the dress.
Ada gives me a small smile. “Anytime, sugar tits. Now, let’s talk shoes...”
By the time we get back to Afterglow—plus one pair of nude pumps—the effect of the afternoon’s free champagne is roaring inside me, and I’m decidedly tipsy. I’m not the only one. It’s Thirsty Thursday, and most of the booths are full. My spirits lift at the unexpected patronage…
Until I catch a glimpse of Krissy and Cameron, each five customers deep, while Aggie’s meals pile up in the kitchen window.
On the walk home, Ada and I decided to finally take the sultry, fake-candid photos of us pretending to bartend.
Now, it looks like I’m going to have to actually bartend.
Only, I’m sure I rostered three people on for tonight…
“Cece?” Cameron shouts as he heroically attempts to pour three pints at once. “Lisa’s out. Called in sick.”
“Shit.” My chest tightens. Lisa’s called in sick four times this month, which wouldn’t be a problem if Krissy hadn’t seen photos of her dolled up at the races last Friday. Now, I never know whether to believe her or not.
Ada grabs my arm. “I’ll help. I know I’m dogshit, but I can do things. At least for a little while.”
“Addy,” I protest.
“I promise not to be a dick to the punters,” she says, completely misreading me. I meant that she’d already done enough for me today.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “This is my mess.”
“Shh. Seriously, go get behind the bar,” Ada says, already tying her hair into a high ponytail. “I’ll clear tables and run food.”
“And I’ll help,” a low voice says from behind me.
Davis is here, an hour early for his shift—tall, tanned, and apparently summoned anytime Ada’s in mild distress.
My stomach twists. Probably from his cologne.
It’s nice. Woody and spicy and God knows what else.
I usually try not to inhale when he’s nearby because sniffing employees seems like a straight shot to employment court, but right now the scent of his wealth surrounds me.
Poor dudes don’t wear cologne like that.
The reminder that Davis doesn’t need this job bouncing the door of my struggling bar has my intestines twining like snakes.
That, and the way he and Ada are grinning at each other.
“Hurry up, Tofu Bacon,” Ada says, oblivious to my crisis. She dashes behind the bar to grab a couple of aprons.
“Demon,” Davis mutters, dragging his hoodie over his head. He’s hacked the sleeves off his black and lavender Afterglow tee. His tattoos are on full display, ink winding up his arms and disappearing under the raw cotton.
I wonder how far they go… What makes someone stop? Just say, “That’s enough. No more?”
Oh God, what was in that champagne?
“You’re not even supposed to be here until seven,” I tell Davis, trying to recover from my thoughts.
He doesn’t respond to this, just stares me full in the face. “You look different.”
My fake eyelashes suddenly feel very fake. Why did I let Ada talk me into extensions? ‘Natural glam’ my ass. I don’t feel glamorous, I feel like a kid playing dress-up. A fraud of a woman. A fraud of a bar owner. There’s a burst of laughter as another wave of after-work-drinkers rolls in.
“Oh God,” I moan, dropping my shopping bags onto the beer-stained carpet.
“What’s wrong?” Davis asks.
“Nothing,” I say, my voice wobbling like half-set jelly.
“I’ve got this,” Davis says, scooping up my bags. “Head upstairs if you want. I’ll—”
“It’s fine.” I give myself a hard mental slap. “Can you please put those in the office for me?”
He smiles, and my pulse jolts, but I do my best to ignore it, locating my own apron and getting to work helping Cameron and Krissy battle the flood of drink orders.