Chapter 33
Tracy
“Are you sure this will work?” Alex asks.
“She’s already done her final fitting. And she probably won’t risk putting it on until the big day,” I say.
It was surprisingly easy to sneak into Kenzie’s place—the spare key under the ceramic turtle in her garden, the squeak of the back door that we muffled with our palms, the familiar smell of her vanilla-scented candles that made my stomach turn.
We tiptoe across her plush white carpet, leaving faint footprints in our wake, and slide into her walk-in closet where designer clothes hang in perfect color coordination.
The wedding dress hangs at the very end, wrapped in a pristine garment bag that rustles like whispers as I slowly unzip it.
We both just shake our heads, speechless.
Kenzie has been so secretive about her dress, insisting on attending every appointment alone, her phone mysteriously absent of fitting photos. Not like we all were for Harper, champagne flutes in hand, tears and laughter mixing as she twirled in front of the mirrors.
We gasp as we take in the sight of the dress.
The ivory silk catches the light from Kenzie’s bedroom, making the thousands of hand-sewn sequins shimmer like fish scales.
The bodice hugs an invisible form, its sweetheart neckline edged with delicate Chantilly lace that looks as fragile as spun sugar.
Cascading layers of tulle create a ballgown silhouette that would make any bride look like she floated rather than walked down the aisle—exactly as Harper had dreamed when she first tried it on.
“This is—”
“Harper’s dress,” I finish.
No wonder she didn’t want anyone with her as she picked her dress. She stole it from Harper.
“Does she have an original thought of her own?” I ask.
“What exactly is the plan, here?” Alex asks me.
That’s a great question. We hadn’t quite figured that out. All we decided in our drunken stupor at the bachelorette party was that we were going to ruin the dress.
“How about making small cuts in it?” Alex offers.
I shake my head. “No, those could be remedied fairly easy. All she’d have to do is wear white underneath.”
“Large cuts?”
Laughing, I touch the bodice. “Giant gaps where her boobs should be?”
“She’d probably walk down with her tits hanging out thinking she’s doing something edgy.”
“We need to do something… big. But it can’t be something that she’ll try to pull off as a fashion statement.”
The metallic jingle of keys scraping into the front door lock sends electric panic shooting through my veins.
“Shit,” Alex mouths silently, her eyes wide as dinner plates.
We fumble with trembling fingers to zip the garment bag closed, the plastic rustling traitorously loud in the quiet room.
I grab Alex’s wrist and we squeeze ourselves behind the massive white bag, pressing our bodies flat against Kenzie’s color-coordinated blouses and knock-off designer jeans she insists are real.
The wedding dress hangs between us and discovery like a ghostly sentinel, its voluminous skirts barely concealing our feet. I hold my breath until my lungs burn, praying the thundering of my heart isn’t as audible as it feels hammering against my ribs.
“He’s still in love with her. I know it. I can feel it,” Kenzie says to herself as she paces her bedroom. “What more can I do to prove I’m better than Harper? Why can’t anyone see it?”
Maybe stop trying to be Harper? We might actually like Kenzie if we know who the hell you are.
Nah, probably not.
“I can’t figure out what more I can give Asher. Why is he still hung up on Harper? She’s not even that pretty.”
She whips open the closet doors with enough force to make the wooden hangers rattle like wind chimes in a storm.
Alex’s clammy palm finds mine in the darkness, our fingers interlocking in a death grip.
My lungs burn as I hold my breath, counting each excruciating second as Kenzie’s vanilla perfume—the same one Harper used to wear—wafts into our hiding spot.
Through the narrow gap between dresses, I can see her manicured fingers, nails painted the exact shade of blush Harper wore at her engagement party, hovering inches from the garment bag that barely conceals us.
I’m convinced we’re busted, caught like teenagers sneaking out after curfew. But a traitorous thought flickers through my mind: getting caught might be our salvation, a dramatic exit from this charade of a wedding that has become our personal purgatory.
Her phone rings, and she sighs dramatically before answering it with an overly chipper tone. “Dorothy, hi! Lilies? they want to give us lilies? I guess if that’s the best they can… Yeah, okay. Of course. I understand.”
The phone hits the bed, and Kenzie lets out a small scream. She stomps her foot on the floor.
“Drunk bitch.”
Letting out a few deep breaths that whistle through her clenched teeth, she comes back to the closet, yanks a silky blue blouse from a hanger with enough force to send the empty hanger swinging wildly, and slams the doors shut again with a crack that reverberates through the wooden panels.
Both of us jump, our shoulders colliding in the cramped space, but we don’t make a sound as Kenzie’s heels click-clack across the hardwood floor toward the front door, each step fading like the ticking of an angry clock.
We stay completely still until we know she’s officially gone before stepping out of the closet. That was close. We were almost caught mid-sabotage, and we burst out laughing.
“Pretty sure Harper never said that about Mom,” Alex says.
That sparks an idea, and I bounce with giddy. I hurry out to the kitchen and look through the fridge and cabinets until I find what I’m looking for.
Red wine.
Next stop: Bathroom.
Her cabinets are so unorganized that I almost want to organize it for her. “No wonder it takes you three hours to get ready. It takes two just to find your eyeliner.”
Finally, I find the Q-tips and hurry back into the room where Alex frowns.
“What the hell is that for?”
“Wine stains.”
Her eyes light up. “And paintbrushes!”
Alex unzips the garment bag with surgical precision, revealing the pristine ivory fabric beneath.
I uncork the wine bottle, its deep burgundy contents gleaming like liquid rubies in the closet’s dim light.
Dipping the cotton swabs until they’re saturated, we kneel before the dress and begin our work.
The wine seeps into the delicate fabric with each careful press, blooming outward in crimson flowers.
Our hands move in silent coordination, creating a constellation of stains across the groin area until the pattern unmistakably resembles the aftermath of a period that arrived at the worst possible moment.
“The back, too!” Alex says.
We turn it around to mark up the back to look the same, and we can’t help the laughter. “We just have to hope she doesn’t open the bag before she goes to try on the day of.”
“Right? Although, what can she really do? Get one off the rack that isn’t the exact dress Harper chose?”
“I got it! Hold it up and tight along your chest.”
Alex doesn’t question me and does as I suggest, stretching the ivory fabric taut across her chest. I dip the Q-tip deep into the burgundy wine, letting the excess drip back into the bottle before bringing it to the dress.
With surgical precision, I dot two perfect circles where nipples would be, watching as the wine blooms outward into the delicate fabric like a time-lapse of roses opening.
Alex’s shoulders quake with silent laughter, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as she struggles to hold the dress still.
“Hold still!”
“I’m trying,” she says between fits of giggles. “We’re pure evil for this. You know that, right?”
Shaking my head, I examine my handiwork. “No, wer’e not evil. We’re retaliating against evil with evil. Fighting fire with fire. There’s a big difference.”
“I suspect we’ll have this exact conversation as we sit in hell, but that’s okay. No one deserves this more than Kenzie.”
I couldn’t agree more.