Funny Story(73)

“You’ve already done everything,” I told her. “Absolutely everything. And you don’t even believe in all this.”

“Sweetie.” She smoothed my hair over my shoulder. “I believe in you. I believe you should and will have everything you’ve ever wanted, if you’re not too scared to go after it.”

It was the first time, one of very few, that I’d wondered whether Mom really was as happy on her own as she seemed to be.

“It’s the one,” she said again, kissing the side of my head. “You’re my one.”

“You’re mine too,” I said.

She smiled. “No, baby,” she said. “Now you’ve got two.”

There had been no I always told you not to rely on men from her when things came crashing down. There had been only kindness, comfort, scathing criticisms of Peter.

I still felt guilty about the dress, but whenever I brought up the possibility of paying her back, she joked that she actually owed me money, since I’d never needed her to bail me out of jail or replace a garage door I drove through “like a normal teen.”

The way my mom talked about “normal teens” made it clear that she’d been the kind they write movies about, who sneak out bedroom windows and throw keggers in the woods.

As I’m getting the dress over my shoulders, Ashleigh knocks and shouts something that sounds like a question at me through the door, but it’s unintelligible through the cocoon of fabric I’m fighting against. “Hold on!” I call back. “Give me a minute!” Another muffled reply.

I finally manage to shake out all the layers, and turn my back to the mirror to feel around for the zipper. It jams three times before I coax it to my shoulder blades.

Then I turn to examine the smooth silk bodice in the mirror over the sink. The high boatneck and bare arms. The flare of the skirt. The pockets the shop seamstress had added. I’d been so excited about the pockets.

For a second, I let myself feel the sadness.

I’m mourning the Victorian house with its porch, and the gorgeous new kitchen where Peter would cook me dinner. The kids we might’ve had, and the parents we would’ve become. The way that walking through the front door would feel like stepping into a warm hug.

But honestly, the dress itself doesn’t have the same effect it used to. Possibly because it’s now a size and a half too small, the seams straining, my cleavage pushed up like I’m a Tessa Dare heroine courting scandal. Except Tessa’s cover models look sexy and courageous; I look baffled and ridiculous.

I let myself out of the bathroom and sweep into the living room with a dramatic “Ta-da!”

It’s incredibly anticlimactic, wearing your skintight wedding gown into an empty room.

“Hello?” I creep toward the kitchen. It’s empty, though Ashleigh’s phone is on the counter, her playlist still blaring out “Love Is a Battlefield” via Bluetooth speaker.

I traipse back into the living room, but there’s no sign of them. Behind me, the front door clanks open.

I turn and stop short. So does Miles.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi?” He says it like a question, a look akin to horror on his face.

Probably because I’m drifting around the apartment in a gown for a wedding that never happened while Pat Benatar serenades me from the kitchen.

“I’m not wearing this,” I say quickly.

“Okay,” he says.

“I mean, I am wearing this, but not by myself,” I explain.

He looks around the empty apartment.

“Your sister and Ashleigh were here!” I also look around the empty apartment, searching for proof I’m not having a Miss Havisham moment and instead finding wedding supplies everywhere. “They wanted to see the dress, so I put it on, and now they’re . . . somewhere.”

He finally cracks a smile, takes off his sweatshirt, and tosses it over a chair. “I saw them getting into a cab downstairs. Apparently they needed milkshake supplies.”

Which explained what Ashleigh was shouting at me when I was wrestling with the dress. “Ah.” I cross my arms in front of myself.

“I’ll pay you to wear that to Peter and Petra’s wedding,” he says.

“I’ll pay you more,” I say.

His grin splits wide. “It’s a nice dress. You look nice.”

I blush furiously. “I look like an overstuffed cannolo.”

His head cocks. “What’s a cannolo?”

“The singular version of cannoli,” I say.

“So you look delicious,” he says.

“It used to fit better. Or my vision’s just getting better. Or maybe it’s just, the longer this cuts off my oxygen, the prettier the hallucinations get.”

“You look beautiful,” he says, then, with a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, “even better than an Italian pastry.”

As his gaze tracks over me, I get an unadulterated hit of his spicy-sweet scent and lurch toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna go change.”

Inside, I lock the door and face the mirror. Red splotches have spread from the neckline up my throat.

They basically spell out I STILL WANT MILES NOWAK.

I push aside thoughts of what happened between us in his truck and reach back between my shoulders for the zipper. It glides down a few inches, then snags. I turn my back to the mirror and look over my shoulder as I wrestle the zipper over the bump in the fabric. I manage to tug it back up the tracks an inch, but when I draw it down again, it snags even worse.