Make Me Sin

43

When I arrive at the bridal salon, having left the shop in the capable hands of Trina and Renee, I’ve worked myself up into a bit of a lather about what, if anything, I’m going to tell Kat and Grace about A.J. It’s not that I want to keep anything from them, it’s just that what’s happening with A.J. feels so . . . delicate. Intimate. Strange. I don’t know how I’d describe it, or if I even could.

All I know is that I’m hoping with every fiber of my being that when I look out my window tonight, he’ll be there, waiting.

Or stalking. Whatever.

I haven’t the slightest clue what I’m going to do about Eric. I don’t even know if he’s really going to call me, like he said he would. For now, I’ve decided to cross that bridge when I come to it. There are only so many fires you can try to put out at once.

And damn, am I on fire. I’m burning so hot, I’m surprised everyone can’t see the flames.

I’m a little breathless when I walk-run into the elegant, white-on-white salon.

Kat and Grace stand on a raised dais in front of a wall of mirrors. Kat’s all rocker-chick chic in skinny jeans, pointy-toe high heeled boots, and a leather jacket, her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Looking like an sss warrior goddess gussied up for a ball, Grace is in the sage-green dress. It’s one shouldered, fitted and shirred through the bodice and waist, with a side slit that exposes her toned leg all the way to her hip. A seamstress kneels at her feet, pinning the hem. The blade-thin salesgirl who helped Kat find her wedding dress when we shopped here with her a few months ago is fluttering this way and that like an emaciated butterfly, pouring champagne into crystal flutes. Kenji, Bad Habit’s stylist and Kat’s third bridesmaid—er, bridesman—is admiring himself in a full-length mirror near the dressing room.

He’s wearing the same gown Grace is.

“Hi! Sorry I’m late!”

Everyone turns to look at me. Kat smiles. Grace narrows her eyes. Kenji puts his hand on his hip, looks me up and down, and whistles. “Well, helllooo, white chocolate! Who’s been nibblin’ on your little ol’ Wonder Bread crusts?”

“I would answer that, but I don’t even know what language you’re speaking.” I toss my handbag onto a white leather chair. The salesgirl scowls at me. I want to tell her to eat a hamburger. Then I remember that’s exactly what A.J. did say to her when we were here last, and a flush creeps up my neck at the thought of him.

“Allow me to translate,” says Grace, eyeing me with one elegant brow arched. “What Kenji said was, ‘Hello, normally uptight white girl who suddenly has a mad, hip-shakin’ strut, you look like you’ve recently gobbled down a giant c**k sandwich, and we’d all like to know whose it was.’”

I stare at Grace. “Honestly, dude. Sometimes I wonder about you.”

She smiles serenely. “Don’t change the subject.”

“Leave her alone, Grace.” Kat winks at me. “And go get your dress on, Lo, we have to be out of here by four. They have another group coming in.”

I’m so relieved I want to sigh out loud, but I pretend nonchalance instead. “Just point me in the right direction.”

The salesgirl ushers me into the dressing room and helps me into the gown. When I turn and look at myself in the mirror, I’m pleasantly surprised. The color and style are very flattering on me.

“You won’t need any adjustment to the length,” the salesgirl purrs, fussing over me. She’s pleased by my height. She’s also obviously pleased by the fit around my waist and chest, because she says, “It’s not often we have girls who can fit into the sample sizes. Usually if they’re as tall and slender as you are, they have those hideous bolt-ons to go with.”

Grimacing, she spreads her hands in front of her chest like she’s holding a pair of watermelons. This is one area where the salesgirl and I agree. I think fake boobs are false advertising. Or maybe I’m just jealous. Unless you’re a runway model, B-cups aren’t exactly all the rage.

They did come in handy for volleyball, though. I played on a team all through high school and college, and never once did I have a nip slip.

“Let’s go show your girlfriends, dear.”

The salesgirl—whose nametag reads “AINE,” a word I have no idea how to pronounce, so I don’t even try—leads me into the main dressing area by the wrist. She announces, “Here we are!” and golf claps like I’ve just won Best in Show.

I curtsy, because it seems like the thing to do.

Kat squeals in delight. “Oh my God, it’s perfect! You look f*****g amazing!”

Grace, sounding impressed and also a little disgruntled, says, “If anyone has the genes to wear couture, it’s definitely you, sweetheart.”

Kenji says, “Bitch.”

Kat sends Kenji a sour look. “Oh, stop, Gookemon. Don’t be a hater.”

“You stop, Rucky Charms! How am I supposed to be my fabulous self with all this—” he waves to Grace and me—“going on? I can’t be outdone! I’m a stylist! I have to look the best of the three! If I can pull it off, I’m going to look better than you, too!”

Kat deadpans, “You’ll never look better than me. I’m magicrry derricious.”

Kenji replies, “Whatever you say, Bruce McLee.”

I turn to the salesgirl, who is watching this little exchange in total confusion. “It’s their BFF thing. Don’t worry about it.”