Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Dara
“If you don’t buy that dress, you’re out of your mind.” Rusti shrugs, slurping her iced coffee. “It’s absolute perfection.”
I spin in a slow circle, watching my reflection in the changing room mirrors to get the full effect.
The dress fits me like a glove. The champagne color offers a rosy hue to my skin. I can move and breathe easily in the cotton and polyester blend fabric. Somehow the band at the waist gives me a deep curve while holding everything in place.
It’s basically magic.
And it makes me feel magical.
“You can pull the sleeves up for the wedding and cover your shoulders,” Rusti says. “And then you can do a little off-the-shoulder, sexier vibe for the reception. It’s really two looks in one.”
“What shoes do I wear with this?” I turn side to side, wondering if the slit is too high. “Heels, of course, but what color?”
“Something nude. Oh! What about that pair you wore when we went to that comedy show in Atlanta last year? I think there’s a strap at the ankle and one over the toe? Maybe?”
The longer I wear the dress, the more excitement begins to spread through my body.
“Those would work,” I say.
“No. Those would be perfect.”
I smile. “Okay. I think this one is it.”
“That is definitely it. You’re going to be Catnip’s catnip Saturday night.”
I bite my lip and try to keep a level head.
Holt’s invitation was a gift that I didn’t know I needed.
Weddings, parties, holiday dinners—I used to do all of that.
I used to love having a big weekend celebrating someone or something because my natural inclination is to stay home and work.
Getting dressed up and letting my proverbial hair down was something I would look forward to.
But that hasn’t been the case lately with the grief and fear of the last year and I’d forgotten that.
So, the fact that I’m genuinely excited for the weekend makes sense. But making sense of the buzz in my body over spending an afternoon with Wade is a little more difficult … and something I didn’t really expect.
I mull over the situation and try to justify it while Rusti slurps the rest of her coffee.
It’s been a long time since I was excited to see a man, really. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about Wade that makes me forget the myriad of things in my life that usually takes up most of my brain space. But it’s a fact that when we’re together, I feel lighter. Funnier. More confident.
And I like that. I like that me.
“Get dressed so we can get some lunch,” Rusti says. “This iced coffee is all I’ve had today.”
“Okay.” I return to my fitting room and lock myself in. After a final glance at my reflection, I slip off the dress. “Thank you for coming to help me pick something out.”
The toe of Rusti’s Doc Marten boot pokes under the door.
“You couldn’t have stopped me if you wanted to,” she says. “You have that thread of self-sabotage that probably would’ve had you picking the black dress with the lace overlay.”
I did like that dress.
“I do not self-sabotage,” I say, laughing at how well Rusti knows me.
“Not always. Just sometimes.” Her boot moves back and forth. “Want to get foot-long hot dogs from the cart guy outside the shoe store?”
“Of course.”
I get myself sorted and the dress back on the hanger. Rusti is waiting for me when I open the door.
“What?” I ask, raising a brow.
Her head is cocked to the side. She nibbles the end of her straw as she watches me with a curious yet contented look.
Rusti is a romantic if she’s anything, and I know that glimmer in her eye.
“Stop doing that,” I say as I walk by her.
“Stop doing what?” She spins around and follows me. “I’m not doing anything.”
Ignoring her question that should be rhetorical, I deliver the dress to the cashier.
“This will be it,” I tell the pretty blonde, pointedly ignoring both Rusti looming behind me and the rush of nervous energy spiraling through my veins.
“Did you find everything okay?” the cashier asks.
“Yes. Thank you.”
I pay for the dress, wait for the saleswoman to place it in a bag, and then carry it right past Rusti and to the exit.
I squint as my eyes adjust to the sunlight.
“So, you bit, huh?” Rusti asks.
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”
She laughs. “You actually like the guy.”
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, nearly causing an old man to run into my back. I offer him an apology, but he just steers a wide berth around Rusti and me and keeps trucking.
The anxiety that began to trickle through me in the store surges.
I don’t know how to answer Rusti’s question. Do I like him? How do I not? He’s handsome, successful—a gentleman. But none of that matters because of one simple, tiny little fact: it doesn’t matter.
From the moment I walked into his office and saw him sitting behind that stately desk, I knew it wouldn’t make a difference if I liked him or not. I crushed on him in college. It got me more huffs and eye rolls than I could count.
Wade Mason doesn’t do love or relationships or, hell, I don’t even know if he does one-night stands. He’s married to his job, and he has every right to be. Random people don’t achieve the things he has by screwing around on the weekends.
I respect that.
But the only way to keep our … friendship? working relationship? whatever it is manageable is not to think about it—not to think about the possibilities or if there was any chance whatsoever that Wade might be into me.
“Rusti, stop.” I open my car and hang the dress up in the back. “Let’s get a hot dog and talk about … anything. When are you seeing Zack again?”
I close the door.
She leans against the side of my car. “Like you’re interested in Zack.”
“I’m not,” I say, looking her in the eye. “But you are. So, let’s talk about him. Are you guys a thing now or what?”
She shoves off the car and follows me across the parking lot.
“I’m seeing him tonight. I don’t know if we’re back together,” she says. “We’re hanging out. We’re fucking, obviously. But we haven’t had a conversation about tomorrow or the next day or next week or next month.”
I slow my steps, relieved that she’s shifted topics. My breathing returns to a normal pace, and I look at Rusti without trying to build in a silent message.
She looks down and toes a rock as we walk.
“I’m sorry,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulders. She rests her head against mine. “I know you want something more with him. It must be hard to be in limbo and unsure about the future.”
She raises her head and sighs. “Yeah. It sucks.”
“But you’re young. You have time to find a man and settle down if that’s what you want.”
“I’m three years younger than you.”
I giggle. “Yes. Barely old enough to drink.”
She laughs. “I do want to get married. I want to be a young mom. My mom was twenty-two when she had me, and she had all the energy in the world while I was growing up. And she was still cool, you know? Liked the music I liked, liked to shop.” She smiles sadly.
“I want that kind of a relationship with my daughter someday, but it’s never going to happen at this rate. I’ll be a new bride at seventy.”
“Dramatic much?”
A half-grin tickles her lips. “What about you?”
We round the corner and spot the hot dog stand. The lunch line is a solid twenty people long.
“What about me?” I say.
“Do you want to get married? Be a mom?” She rolls her eyes. “I know you’ve shunned men in the past, and the puker made you swear off kids, but do you want that kind of life, Dara? No judgment either way.”
We take our place in line behind a man wearing a fedora with a feather stuck in the side.
I consider Rusti’s question as she answers a text. Do I want to be a wife and mom?
The question feels wobbly in my heart.
I’ve never been a woman who’s prioritized having a family.
I suppose I’ve always assumed that I would get married someday.
I’ve never been in a relationship where I considered such a thing, so I haven’t really given it much thought.
And kids haven’t been on my radar either.
My life has been enough to keep me emotionally and financially strapped; there hasn’t been a lot of excess energy to dream about adding another human to my responsibilities.
But over the past few months, something has changed.
Since I buried my mother and the well-wishers went home and stopped calling—went about their normal life as though mine wasn’t just completely thrashed—a deep sense of loneliness has embedded in my bones.
It’s not just spatial loneliness. It’s not having anyone to call at the end of the day, and no one to call in early December and demand a list of options for Christmas dinner.
There is no one to call who will love me and console me whether I’m right or wrong. I’m not building memories with anyone, and no one in the world shares my past experiences.
This kind of emotional loneliness is different. And it’s fucking hard.
“I don’t know if I want kids,” I say when Rusti slips her phone back in her pocket.
“Well, that’s a change from your usual stance.”
I shrug as I ponder the thoughts rolling through my brain.
“When I say this,” I say, “I don’t mean you.”
“This is starting off well.”
I laugh. “You know I love you, and I know you’re there for me, and we’re family and all of that—yada, yada, yada.”
“I love when you yada, yada, yada me.”
I smile, but my laughter drifts away. “I … I miss having a family.”
A lump pops in my throat, causing the word family to get stuck. I bat my lashes and hope the tears that burn like fire don’t spill over.
Stop being a baby.
Rusti watches me warily for a long few seconds. Then she reaches out and flicks the tip of my nose.
“Ouch!” I say, smacking at her hand.
“That’s so you don’t cry.” She winks at me. “Get mad instead. You’ll thank me later.”
I rub the tip of my nose. “You’re a jerk.”
“No, I’m your best friend, and best friends don’t let best friends cry in public.”
I laugh and nod. I know she doesn’t mean that.
There’s nothing wrong with crying in public.
But she knows that if I start down the rabbit hole of missing my mother and wondering why my grandfather—the only relative I have in the world—doesn’t want much to do with me, I’ll be digging my way out for a week.
And that will be what pisses me off.
We move forward a few spaces toward the hot dog guy.
“Just for the record,” I say. “My grandfather hasn’t called to schedule dinner with me like he said he would.”
“And, just for the record, you should be busy if he does call.” She shrugs in her Rusti way. “I don’t care how much money the man has, Dara. If he doesn’t make you a priority, especially knowing that he’s your only grandfather, then don’t prioritize him.”
“I know.”
“He’s not family by default. He’s a genetic similarity.”
She bumps my shoulder. When I look over at her, she’s flashing me a devilish grin.
“Rusti …” I warn without even knowing what she’s about to say.
Her laugh is loud. It’s bright. And it picks me up and lifts me out of the headspace I was falling into.
“Speaking of genes,” she says before biting her lip. “I know a dark-headed stud that probably has some good genes that you—Ow!” She laughs. “What are you shoving me for?”
The man in the fedora looks over his shoulder. The feather in his cap flutters in the breeze. He quirks a brow, shakes his head, and then faces front again.
“Will you quit it and behave?” I ask.
She laces her arm through mine.
We wait a few more minutes before we get to the cart. We place our orders, and then Rusti pays for our lunch. As we walk away, I thank her.
“You can pay me back,” she says, taking a bite of her hot dog.
“I’m happy to, but really, it was two dollars.”
She grins. “Not financially.”
“I’m not taking boudoir photos for Zack. He has to earn those.”
“Not that. Although …” She quickly considers, then dismisses the idea. “I was going to say that you could pay me back by having a good time at the wedding tomorrow night.”
I give her a look. “I plan on it.”
“I mean it.” She takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. “I’m happy—surprised—but happy that you agreed to go. You never do anything spontaneous or fun.”
“I do too,” I say automatically, even though I really don’t.
Rusti ignores my protest. “This is a good sign, a solid step in the right direction.”
“And what direction is that?” I ask before biting off the end of my hot dog.
“Toward … happiness. Forward progress. Resolution to all the pieces of your life that have been dangling for the past year.”
We walk quietly back toward our cars, eating our meals and lost in thought.
I’m not sure that this wedding will be a step in any direction, nor do I believe it has the power to offer resolution to anything in my life. It’s not even my wedding. But I do hope, maybe even pray, that something good comes out of it.
I might meet a new client. Maybe I’ll book a job for landscape photography or be introduced to someone who has contacts in that world. And maybe all I’ll get out of it is a good time with Wade Mason.
I’d be happy with any of that.
I finish my hot dog and toss the paper in the trash.