Chapter 22
“This is going to be so fun!” Abigail chirps, looping her arm through mine as soon as we get out of her car. “Dress shopping with my favorite girl, what more could I want?”
I smile, trying not to let the guilt crawl up my throat like smoke. Favorite girl. If she only knew.
“Yeah,” I say lightly. “Fun.”
She stops walking and looks at me, her smile faltering. “Oh, come on! Lighten up and have fun with me, please. You’ve been so different since I came home. Are you mad at me or something?”
Shit.
She’s not wrong. I’ve been a mess since she came back, not just because of what Calvin and I have been doing behind her back, but because he and I fought, and then he left for his business trip.
No texts. No calls. And I hate how much I miss him.
Hate that I feel abandoned by someone I have no right to feel that way about.
Hate that I just want to hear his voice and feel like his again.
“No, Abby, I promise I’m not mad at you. I just… I didn’t sleep well,” I lie. “But you’re right, this is going to be fun!”
She eyes me for a beat, like she’s not entirely convinced, then pulls me into one of those signature Abigail hugs. The kind that makes you feel like the world could be on fire and she’d still make it okay.
“I love you so much, Blair. You don’t understand how happy I am that you’re here.”
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, so I laugh to shake them off and step back.
“Okay, enough with the sappy shit. There’s no way I’m crying before shopping. That’s like… fashion law.”
She laughs, wiping a nonexistent tear from the corner of her eye. “God, I missed you.”
Hand in hand, we walk into the boutique, and it’s like walking into another world.
The boutique smells like fresh peonies and old money, with soft lighting that makes everything and everyone look airbrushed.
Gowns float on gold racks like works of art, each one silk, lace, or tulle in delicate shades of ivory and blush.
Velvet chairs, marble accents, and champagne flutes complete the fantasy, while soft French jazz plays in the background.
Even the mirrors are flattering, which feels borderline criminal.
Abigail instantly brightens, scanning the racks like she’s stepped onto the runway. A skinny blond man with overly gelled hair and a name tag that says Troy practically skips toward us.
“Abigail, babe! It’s been forever!” Troy squeals. When he gets close enough, they both start air-kissing like seasoned professionals.
“I know, I was out of town, but I’m back, and I need two gorgeous gowns for the Irish Masquerade ball,” Abby announces dramatically, pulling me close. “One for me, and one for my baby sis here.”
Troy gasps like he’s just spotted royalty. “Oh my God, you two look so much alike, I could die! Are you actually going to the Emerald Veil ball?! I heard Cillian O’Malley is attending this year. Ugh, I hate you. I love you, but I hate you, you lucky bitch.”
I have no idea who Cillian O’Malley is, but this conversation is highly entertaining.
“I’d hate me too if I weren’t me,” Abby tosses back, and the two of them air-kiss again, so aggressively I think I hear a neck crack.
I watch, fascinated. This isn’t some new version of Abby. She’s always been loud, sparkly, and magnetic like this. Blair Waldorf was her fictional soulmate, and honestly, she looks damn good in this world.
“Alright, let me grab you girls some champagne,” Troy says, already spinning toward the back. “In the meantime, browse! Touch everything! Live your best couture life!”
Abby turns to me, eyes wide with excitement. “You ready for your Pretty Woman moment?”
I don’t get a chance to answer before she pulls me toward a row of gowns that look like they cost more than my college tuition. Abigail is talking about colors and fabrics. I’m only half-listening. My fingers slip into my pocket and brush against the black card.
The dress I’ll be taking off you.
I can’t use this card with Abby watching. If she sees it, she’ll know. The one she gave me is a plain blue Visa. The one Calvin gave me is black, sleek, heavy, unmistakable. Amex.
I should’ve gone dress shopping before she came back. But of course, I was too… occupied.
“Try this one,” Abigail says, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts as she hands me a dress with a dramatic flourish.
I disappear into the dressing room, slipping into it. It’s a striking red, off-the-shoulder number, cute, but too short. One wrong move and I’ll be giving everyone more of a show than I bargained for.
Just as I start to shimmy out of it, Abby yells, “Don’t you dare take it off before I see it!”
I roll my eyes before reluctantly stepping out to find her lounging with a glass of champagne in her hand, Troy perched beside her. They both give me the once-over.
“You look beautiful,” she says.
“I look like a hooker,” I protest, tugging the hem that insists on crawling higher with every breath.
“An expensive hooker,” Troy quips, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Come on, you look fashionable!” Abby insists, which only deepens my frown.
“I feel like, since I’m the one actually going to fashion school, I should be the one deciding what looks fashionable,” I say, crossing my arms.
She rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m your…” She falters for a beat, but I know where this is going, “Older sister, and you have to do what I say.”
“Wow. Great comeback. But I don’t think that’s how that works…”
“Well, it is. So deal with it. Now get back in there and try this one on.” She hands me another hanger with a grin.
And so it begins.
Dress after dress, I model for my sister, who sits perched on a velvet chair like some sparkly queen, champagne in hand, chatting with Troy like they’re the hosts of their own chaotic fashion talk show.
Troy keeps appearing with more gowns and dramatic commentary, gasping at my waistline, twirling me, and adjusting straps like it’s a red-carpet emergency.
There’s a champagne glass in my hand now. I don’t even remember when that happened.
I try on a sleek black column dress, a blush feathered one that makes me look like a flamingo, and a gown with dramatic tulle sleeves that basically swallow my arms whole.
Abby loves them all. I feel like I’m drowning in glitter and compliments I didn’t ask for.
And then, she slips one more hanger into the dressing room. “Okay, this one,” she says, grinning. “I don’t even care what you say, just try it on.”
I take it because if I don’t, she’ll just come in here and force me to wear it anyway.
The dress is all rose gold silk and dangerous slits.
I step into the dress, and it slides up my body sinfully. When I turn to face the mirror, I nearly gasp.
It’s like it was made for me.
A corset-style bodice hugs my torso, the defined boning sculpting my frame into something impossibly elegant. The off-the-shoulder neckline drapes softly around my arms, sensual and romantic, while thin spaghetti straps add the illusion of support.
I’m not a fan of the straps; they ruin the line of the dress, but that’s an easy fix.
The fabric is silk, smooth and rich, catching the light with a sheen that screams luxury.
The bottom half is ruched just right, draping softly over my hips and enhancing every curve I didn’t know I could flaunt like this.
A bold thigh-high slit slices up my leg, turning the whole thing from pretty to dangerously seductive.
It hugs me everywhere, my waist, my thighs, the slope of my breasts. Calvin would lose his mind.
I bite my lip and close my eyes.
“Turn around,” I hear him whisper, low and sinful in my head.
So I do.
The slit reveals just enough leg that I know exactly what he’d do, press his mouth right there possessively before flipping the dress up and spanking me raw if I said something bratty.
I shiver.
Get a grip, I scold myself, trying to calm the wildfire behind my ribs.
A knock rattles the dressing room door. “Can I see?” Abigail’s bright, eager voice.
I take a breath and steady my heartbeat. “Yeah,” I say, and open the door.
Her face lights up the second she sees me. “Oh my God, you look insane. That color on your skin? We’re getting it.”
“Oh yeah, babe, that is totally your dress!” Troy adds.
I smile. “You think?”
Abby scoffs like I’ve asked if water’s wet. “You’re going to turn heads at the ball. Maybe you’ll meet a handsome man there. Oh, I can’t wait,” she singsongs, practically vibrating with excitement.
I roll my eyes, trying to play it off. “Abby, please. I’m not looking for a man,” I mumble.
Because I’ve already found one.
One I’m not supposed to want, let alone keep.
The next night, I lie in bed clutching my phone, the screen dimming every few seconds as if mocking me.
He was supposed to come home tonight.
Abby told me earlier that something came up, that he had to stay in Wisconsin just one more day. He’ll be back in time for the gala but I don’t want to wait until then. I can’t. Not after the way we left things.
So I sent him a message. Just ‘hey’. That was nearly thirty minutes ago, and it still just says ‘delivered’.
My jaw tightens until I feel it throb. Is this another form of punishment? Because if it is, I’m not impressed. I’m unraveling. Pathetically.
I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone so painfully like this. Something that settles in your bones and coils under your skin until even breathing feels like it might break you.
I just want to talk to him, about anything, and. know that we’re okay. That I didn’t ruin everything by wanting too much and the weeks we spent together weren’t some fragile, one-sided fantasy I built in my head. That he misses me even a little.
I swipe away a frustrated tear before it hits the pillow and type again. Still so full of want it might choke me.
Abby and I went shopping yesterday. It went about how you’d expect lol.
I couldn’t use your card. Not with her there.
Anyway, I hope whatever came up over there isn’t too bad.
I stare at the screen long after it sends. Watching the little word ‘delivered’ sit there, unmoving.
An hour later, when he does not reply, I set the phone on my nightstand and roll over, burying myself under the covers. But they don’t warm me. Nothing does.
Not tonight.