“Of course,” Laurel said, pushing through the wide glass door. “Let’s do it.”
The scene inside the store was a madhouse. Women swarmed like angry bees, grabbing clothes off hangers and out of bins. Two girls Emma recognized from her German class were actually yanking a pair of jeans back and forth between them, arguing loudly over who’d seen them first. Older women reeking of Chanel No. 5 pursed their lips in disdain at the disorder, but snatched at hats and bags just as eagerly when they found the labels they were looking for. Salesgirls tottered around on five-inch heels looking harassed.
Emma ran her hand over a cashmere T-shirt left rumpled on a table. When she flipped over the tag, she burst into a fit of coughing. Even with the price reduction, the shirt was four hundred dollars. Laurel grabbed her elbow.
“Ralph Lauren? Who are you shopping for, Grandma? Come on.” She steered her toward a cluster of cocktail dresses. Nisha was already sorting through a rack of jewel-toned Oscar de la Rentas. Laurel whipped her sweater off and pulled a strapless yellow minidress over her camisole and jeans, then, frowning, tugged off the jeans underneath. It would have been strange if all the other women in the store hadn’t been doing the same thing. Laurel studied her reflection in a full-length mirror on a pillar, then looked enviously at Emma. “I wish I had your shoulders.” She pulled off the minidress and handed it to her. “You try it on.”
Emma tugged the dress over her head. She pivoted back and forth in the mirror, scrunching up her face. The color was way too banana.
Come on, I wanted to tell her. Didn’t she know yellow was the color this year? And she and I actually have the skin tone to pull it off.
Now Laurel was wearing a gold lace Dolce & Gabbana number that made her skin glow. “So you’re talking to Thayer again, huh? I saw you guys in the front yard.”
Emma shrugged as she took the dress off. “Yeah. It’s been kind of awkward between us, but I don’t want to lose him as a friend.”
Laurel scoffed. “Well, what’d you expect? I don’t know what happened between you or why you decided to break it off with him, but he’s not over it.”
Emma eyed her carefully. Laurel had forgiven her sister for coming between her and Thayer, but her tone was still tinged with wistfulness. She grabbed a short red Alice + Olivia dress.
“You would look drop-dead in this,” Emma said, holding the dress out to Laurel. “Every guy at the party will be drooling over you.”
“Really?” Laurel said, looking touched.
“Promise.” Emma grabbed more dresses from the rack and held them up to her body without trying them on. Tucking a black sheath under her chin, she used both hands to pull her hair away from her face to see what the dress would look like in an updo.
Laurel glanced at her and made a jealous snort. “You and your cheekbones. It’s so unfair. Who was your birth mom, some Russian ballerina?”
Emma’s eyebrows shot up. She and Laurel had never talked about Sutton’s birth mother before. Had she and Sutton? She appraised Laurel’s face out of the corner of her eye. Their coloring was completely different—Laurel had the peachy skin and sandy-blond hair of Mr. Mercer’s side of the family, while Emma had inherited Mrs. Mercer’s dark hair and porcelain skin. At first glance they looked nothing alike. But the longer she looked, the more she noticed the things they shared: the arching brows, the same small, delicate earlobes, the same hairline. She wondered if Sutton and Laurel had ever noticed or commented on it growing up.
“Thayer’s still got it bad for you, you know,” Laurel went on. “He looks at you the same way he did two summers ago at that county fair. Remember that? He spent three hours to win you that giant Scooby-Doo prize in the ring toss? That’s dedication. That kind of feeling doesn’t go away overnight.”
Emma hid a smile. That was dedication. No one had spent three hours doing anything for her, but it was the kind of goofy romantic gesture she loved. She imagined the two of them sharing a funnel cake, riding the Ferris wheel. But then she stopped in confusion. Who was she picturing in this memory—Sutton, or herself?
Watch it, Emma. Like I said, I don’t share well, especially with sisters.
Nisha appeared beside them, wearing a paper-thin purple dress that made her skin look radiant. She’d already been through the register and carried two black Saks bags over her shoulder. “So how are things with you and Ethan?” she asked.
“Good,” Emma said. “He’s such a romantic.”
Nisha nudged her. “And he’s got a pretty fierce right hook, too.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “How stupid was that fight? I could have strangled them both.”