With Avalee gone, I was on my own. I’d have to walk past the hostess desk and past the waiting benches and wade through the sea of people alone. I was used to going it alone in plenty of things in life, but not when I was dressed the way I was now.
I mean, what should I do first? Go over to my parents and mingle with them and their friends? Dart to the bar for a stiff drink and chug it before anyone could notice me? Head to the seafood buffet so I could be first in line for the crab claws that were longer than my arms? Or march right up to Charlotte and thank her for picking out, with such great care and concern, the dress I’d be spending the next fourteen to eighteen hours of my life trapped within?
The crab legs were calling my name, and since my mom had her back turned, maybe I could pile a plate up with them without being shamed into eating less. I was just marching toward the buffet line when I noticed one of the nearby restroom doors shove open, and out came a familiar face.
Boone took a few long strides before he noticed me. He froze in the middle of rolling up his sleeve and gave me a head-to-toe inspection.
I pointed at the zipper. “Zipper busted. Clara stuck.”
Just when I couldn’t tell if he was going to laugh or shudder, he raised his palm at me in a “stay there” kind of motion before disappearing back inside the bathroom.
He looked like he’d survived the day of golfing and country clubbing it with the boys, and if he was here now, he hadn’t gotten himself arrested for breaking Ford’s nose—as he nearly had back in high school—nor was he on the run for having murdered Ford as I knew he’d been fantasizing about for years. He was here, present, and accounted for . . . and hadn’t wound up looking like he could play lead sidekick in James and the Giant Peach. Good for him. Sucked for me.
I wasn’t waiting longer than a couple of minutes—and starting to get impatient when I saw people circling the crab legs like a bunch of vultures—when the men’s bathroom door exploded open, and out came Boone . . . looking as I’d never seen Boone before.
“What in the hell happened to you?” I asked, shaking my head to see if my vision needed to clear.
“Let’s see . . .” Boone kicked his foot up to show off a pair of knee-high lavender-and-mint-colored argyle socks that were pulled up to his knees, below which were tied a pair of matching golf shoes. “Ford happened to me. In case the pastel didn’t give it away.”
“Crap, Boone . . . they didn’t make you wear this all day, did they?”
Boone’s jaw stiffened. “No one makes me do anything. Nobody.” After adjusting his beret-looking golf hat, he pinched at the lavender bow tie. “I chose to wear this all day to prove to those elitist bastards that there’s nothing they can do to make me feel inferior. As hard as they damn well might try.”
I shook my head at his outfit, no longer feeling like the only one dressed like they may or may not have been under the impression that Halloween had come four months early. “What are those things?” I poked at the khaki-colored material. “Pantaloons? Britches?”
“If they have a name, I don’t need to know it. I don’t plan on stocking my wardrobe with every shade of them.”
“I’m so sorry.” I felt guilty I’d left Boone alone with my dad and the rest of the “elitist bastards.” Here I thought I’d had it bad with the girls, and it turned out Boone had suffered for eighteen holes looking like a deranged metrosexual had gotten his hands and glue gun on him.
Boone swatted away the tassel swinging from his beret when it bounced in his face. “But I’m not the only one standing here like the butt of every joke.” He thrust his hands in my direction—my dress’s direction. “What happened to you?”
I was surprised he had to ask. “Charlotte happened.”
Boone’s eyes cut through the crowd of guests, landing on my sister. His eyes narrowed. “Well, aren’t the little princess and prince just made for each other?”
“Perfectly made for each other.”
“Why are you still wearing it if this was all Charlotte’s idea?” Boone leaned into the wall behind him and went to slip his hands into his front pockets. He wasn’t wearing his typical worn-in jeans though, and the “pantaloons” were pocket-free. He muttered a curse.
“For two reasons.” I gave the hem of his sweater vest a tug. “Because I want to prove to that elitist bitch that there’s nothing she can do to make me feel inferior.”
He lifted his chin and urged me on when I paused before giving him my second reason . . . which was more like my first.
I withheld a sigh and lifted my arm as high as it would go before I lowered my gaze to the zipper. “Avalee and I busted the zipper when we were trying to get it off of me, and the bridal store didn’t have a seamstress on staff today—because why in the hell would they have one of those at the ready on a Saturday?—but there will be one available tomorrow to fix the zipper and free me from this thing.”