She tried on three dresses and ended up choosing a pale-blue sundress of silky cotton jersey. It was sleeveless, with a square neck, fitted over her chest, flaring at her knees. She was twirling a little, enjoying the swishy feeling of the fabric against her legs when Sue handed her a pair of flat, strappy white sandals with silver buckles, and Lou showed her two necklaces, one made of silver and turquoise, the other a strand of dark-blue glass beads. “Sue, what do you think?”
Sue put her finger against her lips. “The silver one.”
“I agree.” Lou used a pale-pink lip stain, with a little bit of sparkle, and lined Abby’s eyes in silver, and used subtle shades of sky blue and silver on her lids before asking, “How do you feel about false lashes?”
“I’m in your hands,” said Abby, and sat very still as Lou used tweezers to apply individual lashes.
“There. Perfect!” Lou stood up and clasped her hands against her heart.
They ushered Abby back, through the kitchen, past closed doors that she assumed led to the bathroom and maybe a pantry or a closet, and into a room with a queen-size bed, a dresser, and a full-length mirror in the corner. “Voilà!” said Lou, spinning her around.
“Like a young Nicole Kidman!” Sue said.
“No, no,” said Lou. “Like Steven Spielberg’s first wife!”
“Kate Capshaw?”
“No,” said Lou patiently, “Kate Capshaw was his second wife. His first one was the gal with all the curly brown hair. Amy something. She was in that movie with the pickle guy!”
“Amy Irving! Crossing Delancey!” said Sue. “Oh, I loved that movie.”
Abby listened, smiling, and tried to keep her gaze unfocused, taking peeks at parts of herself that might look good, or at least acceptable. It was a skill she’d honed after years of confronting herself in mirrors, beneath the pitiless light of dressing rooms, dorm rooms, restrooms… pretty much any room with a mirror, she thought ruefully. Except, as her gaze traveled from her hair to her face to her dress to her new shoes, she was surprised to see that she looked about as good as she could remember looking. Her hair, freed from its cycling ponytail, fell down her back in a tumble of shiny, frizz-free curls. Her eyes looked bigger and wider; her lips shone beneath a layer of pink gloss, and the dress clung to her curves in a way that made her hope that Sebastian, who’d seen her in skintight bicycling shorts and neon jerseys that hid nothing and flattered even less, would be impressed.
Again, Abby remembered the feeling of his fingers on her cheek, his hand cupping her head, his tongue, warm and agile, in her mouth, and felt her entire body flush. She felt like a cherry cordial, her insides gone liquid and sweet.
“Here,” said Sue, and led Abby to the dresser. “Pick out some perfume.”
Abby spritzed three different bottles in the air before settling on a light floral scent, spraying it on her throat and her wrists. Sebastian will like this, she thought. She wondered if Mark would like it, too, and shut her eyes, telling herself to just, for once, stop thinking; just live in the moment and enjoy the night ahead.
She floated out of the RV and across the parking lot, back up to her hotel room to await Sebastian’s knock, which came at six thirty on the dot.
She opened the door, still only half-believing that any of this was actually happening. And there he was, so handsome she could barely stand to look at him, in khakis and a light blue button-down shirt, with a bouquet of daisies tied in a yellow ribbon in his hand.
“Wow,” he said, looking at her in a way that made every inch of her skin feel warmer. “You clean up nice.”
“Thank you.” He, too, seemed to have gotten the Spoke’n Four makeover treatment. Abby saw that his khakis were slightly too big, the shirt just a little short in the sleeves, and that they’d given him a red-and-gold tie.
Sebastian touched the knot of his tie as he endured Abby’s inspection. “I feel like I’m in eighth grade and my dad helped me get dressed for the school dance.”
You would have never gone to a school dance with me, Abby thought. Then she scolded herself, because what did she know? Maybe she would have been exactly Sebastian’s type. Maybe the thirteen-year-old boy he’d been would not have called her Flabby Abby. Maybe, instead, he would have asked her out, shown up at her house, met her parents and her stepparents, and looked at her the same way.
“Just so we’re clear,” she made herself say, “this isn’t a date.”
Sebastian didn’t seem upset. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”