Boone lifted a brow, gauging to see if I was done. “You don’t need the zipper to get out of The Thing.”
I shoved his arm when he used my designation for the dress, making it sound like the nemesis in some sci-fi flick. It was certainly my nemesis.
“Actually, I do, because in case you missed it, this thing is suctioned tighter to my body than the casing around a bratwurst.” I give the fabric a pinch and pull to show him just how impossible it was to free it from my skin. I felt like someone had super-glued it to me . . . although the copious amounts of sweat I’d shed might have had something to do with that. “No amount of tugging, wiggling, sucking, or sliding will get The Thing off without that zipper functioning. Not even if I lathered my body with butter.”
Boone smiled when I copied his ominous tone when referring to the bridesmaid dress from hell. “Then why didn’t you just cut, rip, or slash it off? That should show her what you think of the dress she picked out for her bridesmaids.”
“Bridesmaid,” I corrected, pointing at myself. “Just lucky me.”
“You’re the one she expected to wear This Thing? The only one?” The muscle running down Boone’s jaw popped through his skin.
“Told you I was lucky.”
Boone muttered another curse before grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the bathroom. “Come with me. I’ve got a pocket knife in my jeans. I’ll get you out of This Thing, and when we’re done slicing it into shreds, we’ll go sprinkle the pieces into her lap.”
“Hold up there, Eager Pocket Knife Man.” I pulled against him just as we were breaking through the bathroom door. “Let’s think this through. First, what am I going to wear when you free me from the confines of The Thing?”
Boone’s face flattened with realization right before his mouth pulled into a crooked smile.
“And you can just delete that image from your depraved mind right now.” I flicked his temple, not sure why knowing he was thinking of me in my underwear made me feel that strange stomach phenomenon. The one where it felt like it’d been invaded by a nest of hummingbirds extra high on nectar. I hadn’t felt that feeling in a long time. So long I’d forgotten what it felt like. “Not to mention my sister will lose her shit if we sprinkle peach silk confetti into her lap and this is, after all, her special week.”
Boone rolled his eyes but stayed quiet.
“And I’m not just wearing this because I couldn’t take it off by the conventional, non-pocket-knife-required, means. I’m wearing it because, like you, I’m sick of them making me feel like a puppet they can toy with whenever and however they choose.” I was able to just barely shrug. “I’m tired of them sticking it to me—to us—just because they can and I’ve let them. This is my weird way of sticking it back.”
Boone was silent for a moment, watching me like he was reading some sort of manual. He didn’t stop staring until Charlotte’s shrill, staccato laugh broke through the room. He cringed. “So we’re sticking it to them together tonight? Have I got it?”
“You’ve got it.” I pulled at the collar of the dress to let some air in. The restaurant was nice and cool, but it didn’t seem to matter. The material didn’t seem to breathe, and I was swathed in it from neck to ankle. “But quick question first, before we go make spectacles of ourselves in front of Charleston’s finest . . .”
Boone pulled at his collar and bow tie and rubbed at the skin behind it. Even for formal dances, Boone hadn’t worn a tie or buttoned his collar. He’d claimed back then that he didn’t like anything around his neck and that collars were for dogs, so for him to be suffering through this, he must have been really trying to make a point.
“You came out of the bathroom in your regular clothes. You’d changed for dinner. Why did you change back into this when you’d already spent all day in it, sticking it to them, and are fortunate enough to not be trapped in it like I am in mine?” I tried not to grin when I noticed the argyle socks, but it was impossible. I doubted if Boone had let anything argyle come within a ten-foot radius of him up until today. “You had a choice tonight. Why choose this?”
He stalled for a moment, letting go of the door and letting it close behind us. He glanced at the main part of the restaurant, looking like he’d rather be there than standing in front of me with that question hanging between us.
“You didn’t have a choice,” he said at last, one of his shoulders lifting. “That’s why I made my choice.”
I felt my eyebrows come together. “So because I didn’t have a choice when it came to This Thing, that made you choose to go change back into Your Thing?” They came together tighter. “That doesn’t make sense.”