I hesitantly thumb through the dresses. I’ve never cared that much about clothes, but for some stupid reason my heart races as I take in the gorgeous, expensive gowns. Every dress is otherworldly beautiful, but they’re so Farrah—bright colors and sequins and tulle and look at me—that I can’t imagine actually wearing one and not feeling like a wannabe all night.
But then I find it. The dress is black, with a streamlined design, spaghetti straps, and a plunging neckline. There are sequins around the bust that glitter under the bright overhead light, but on this gown it looks more rocker-chic than prom dress.
“Try it on!” Farrah says, and I think she’s actually excited to be doing this with me. “I bet it looks amazing on you.”
“It’s a bit daring for me, don’t you think? I mean, I don’t have a bra to go with this. It’d show.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t wear a bra with that dress.” She shoves her magazine off her lap and gets up. “Just trust me. I’ll be outside.”
She breezes out, leaving me alone in the closet. I quickly strip off my clothes, then slip into the dress, shimmying it up my hips in my hurry to not be caught naked. I pull the straps over my shoulders and adjust my breasts. I don’t have to look in the mirror to know I look good. The material feels like butter against my skin, and I suddenly understand the meaning of fits like a glove.
“Damn.”
Farrah stands in the doorway, taking in the dress with a sly grin on her face that reminds me of Hartley.
My cheeks flush at her obvious approval, but still I ask, “Is it good?”
She marches me over to a full-length mirror, turning my shoulders so I face it directly. A rush of pleasure goes through me.
Jenny and I have always been rail-thin. Mom says that we’re lucky, but truthfully, I’ve always thought I looked like a twelve-year-old boy from the neck down and didn’t feel too lucky about it. Yet somehow this dress makes me look curvy, the neckline cutting low enough to make even my small breasts look ample, the fabric pulling tight around my hips before billowing into an elegant pile at my feet.
“Well, what do you think?” Farrah asks.
“I think you were right about the bra.”
She squeals, beaming with pride. “Wait here.”
She goes over to the dresser and rummages inside, then comes back to hold a set of earrings dripping with black and silver jewels to my ears.
“I’m thinking hair up,” she says. “Maybe a few sultry waves around your face. And definitely a red lip.”
“I dunno…I’ve never worn red lipstick in my life.”
“And you’ve never worn a Monique Lhuillier gown before either, have you?” She smiles at me in the mirror.
To say it’s strange to do this with Farrah is an understatement. Still, it’s not as strange as it would have been a mere week ago, and we spend the next two hours styling our hair and considering makeup options. It’s a welcome relief from the other kinds of decisions we’ve collaborated on this week.
The doorbell rings, and I have a sudden urge to fling myself out the window. Sensing my apprehension, Farrah places her hands on my shoulders. “You look incredible. Seriously, Tucker is going to lose his mind when he sees you.” She releases me and steps back. “All right, let me look at you.”
I stand up, and she circles around me with narrowed eyes, plucking at my hair and adjusting my straps. When she deems me ready, she smiles triumphantly and links arms with me. “Perfect. Let’s do this.”
I can hear Tucker making small talk with Farrah’s mom as we descend the stairs, but his words trail off when he sees me. His eyes travel my body, drinking me in, and he makes an appreciative noise at the back of his throat. I can’t help smiling. Farrah lets me go to greet Clayton. Without her to hold on to, I don’t know what to do with my hands, and they dangle awkwardly at my sides.
“You look nice,” I say to break the awkward moment. But it’s not a lie—Tucker was made to wear a suit. He knows it too, and his grin’s almost as sexy as his tailored midnight-blue suit.
“Thanks,” he says. “So do you.”
“You kids have a car, or do you want me to call a service?” Farrah’s mom asks.
“Clayton’s driving us,” Farrah says.
“You sure, Clayton? You’re not going to have any drinks tonight?”
I flush at the mention of drinking from a parent and wonder if this is some sort of test, but no one reacts.
“I’m sure, ma’am. Thanks for the offer. Very kind of you.”
“Okay, I don’t want anybody drinking and driving. Remember, there will be eyes on you when you least expect it,” she warns, and suddenly I know this isn’t kindness. She’s protecting her husband’s image. “Your father and I will be along later.”
With that said, she pats Farrah on the cheek and ushers us out the door.