25. Mason #3
“Come on,” I tell her, packing up my stuff.
“You sure you want to go with me? You can still back out. I promise not to be offended.”
I shake my head. “I offered, Simone. Now get your ass up and let’s go try some dresses on.”
She looks at me funny. “Are you gonna try on dresses too? Need to pick yours out for the gala?”
I narrow my eyes at her, smirking. “Maybe.”
* * *
When we walk into the formal area, Simone heads straight for the racks.
“Ok,” she says while looking at all of the clothes. “We want classy but not trashy. We want sparkle, but nothing that screams disco ball. Something that says ‘I’m put together,’ but also ‘I can drop it low on the dance floor.’”
“That’s a whole lot of personality crammed into one dress,” I say.
“I’ve got a lot of personality to put in it, Mason.”
Simone starts pulling dresses from the rack. “You’re in charge of being brutally honest. Can you do that?”
“Oh, I can do that,” I say, smirking. “You know I’m good at that.”
She takes a handful of dresses—a metallic silver one, an emerald green one, a sequined black one, and some awful pink thing with ruffles that I can only pray she doesn’t actually try on. Then she goes into the dressing room.
First up is a long, dark green satin dress. When she walks out, she smooths it down over her hips nervously.
“What do we think?” she asks.
I squint. “You look like you’re about to go to the rich side of town’s Christmas Eve church service.”
She lets out a little laugh. “Okay, fair. Noted. Next.”
The next one is the pink ruffled monstrosity. She steps out and does a twirl in it. It looks like cotton candy threw up on her.
“Oh my gosh,” I say immediately. “Absolutely not. You look like a cupcake on crack.”
She doubles over laughing, knowing how ridiculous it is.
“It’s that bad?”
“Yes. Take it off. Burn it, please. It’s hurting my eyes.”
She goes back in, still laughing, and I wander around the racks, waiting.
After a few minutes, she calls out, “Don’t laugh.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I say back.
The dressing room door swings open, and I gasp—on purpose.
I found some random clearance dress shirt and scarf, and threw them on while she was changing—the ugliest patterned button-up I could find and a scarf tied like a shawl, paired with my basketball shorts and socks.
She almost chokes. “What are you wearing?”
“I felt left out,” I tell her, strutting down the hallway.
“You look like you got dressed in the dark,” she laughs. “In 2005.”
I twirl. “Is it giving…Holiday Gala?”
“It’s giving ‘please escort him off the premises,’” she says. “Take that off before I pee myself.”
I take it off, and she keeps trying on more dresses. Some of them are genuinely pretty on her, but wrong for the vibe—too simple, too tight, too bridal, too nightclubby.
Then she steps out in one that shuts me up.
It’s this champagne-colored dress, fitted at the top with a deep V-neckline.
The fabric catches the light with a subtle shimmer—not aggressive glitter, just enough.
Her hair’s a little messy from changing, and her cheeks are still flushed from all the laughing we’ve been doing. She looks…perfect.
“Is it…bad?” she asks, tugging at the sides like she’s ready to go change again. “It’s bad, I know—”
I stand up without thinking and walk over, turning her toward the full-length mirror.
“There is no way you can look at yourself in that and think any part of you looks bad,” I tell her quietly. “It’s perfect.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and for a second, everything feels weirdly still.
Then she smiles, bright and a little shy. “Yeah,” she says. “I think this is the one.”
She disappears to change back into her regular clothes and comes out with the dress draped over her arm, heading toward the registers, and I follow.
“Wait,” I say as we walk out of the store, “who are you going with?”
She shrugs as she walks up to my car and waits for me to open her door before getting in.
“I don’t know. No one has asked me. If anything, Madison will just pair me up with one of the guys.”
I close her door once she’s all the way in and walk around to the driver’s side, thinking.
When I get in, I look over at her. “Go with me.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Go to the gala with me,” I repeat. “We all have to be paired up anyway. Might as well make it someone you actually like. I mean, would you rather go with a friend or some random creepy frat guy?”
She laughs. “You are one of those frat guys. Does that make you a creep too?”
“No,” I say, starting the car. “I actually respect women. But I live with those guys…and trust me, most of them don’t share that sentiment.”
She bites her lip, thinking about it for a second. “You’re serious?”
“Yes,” I say. “Come with me. We’ll make it fun. We’re always the life of the party anyway.”
Her smile grows slowly. “Okay,” she says. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
“It’s a date.”
Her brows jump a little, then she laughs it off.
It’s quiet for a while, and then she perks back up. “Wait, can I dress you?”
I groan. “I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming.”