Her eyes narrowed. She had shared it on Facebook when the article first came out and emailed it to the three of us, telling Jake that he had better marry someone who would love her.
“It was true, wasn’t it? We were always closer with Grandma than with Nana. And it’s already going to be hard when they have kids because Jake and Madison don’t live here and her parents are there. Do you really want to make it even more likely that you don’t get to see their kids as much?”
She looked to Amy. “Do you agree with this?”
Amy’s hand was at her mouth and she was chewing on her cuticles. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Fine,” my mother said, throwing up her hands in defeat. “Don’t ever let anyone say I don’t listen. Amy, stop biting your nails.” Amy dropped her hand guiltily.
“So no belts then?” the saleswoman asked.
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m going to go take this off. Amy, can you tell Madison it’s great?”
“Wait,” Amy said. “Let me get a picture of you in it.”
I turned to face her and tried to look less annoyed than I was, then returned to the dressing room to put my work clothes back on. I was starving and, the adrenaline of the confrontation gone, exhausted.
#Obsessed came the text from my sister to both me and Madison, with pictures of the two of us in the dress. Love love love it! I didn’t even have Madison’s phone number, but apparently Amy was in touch with her. And sensitive enough to lie about her reaction to the dress.
I looked at the pictures. Amy was radiant, her arm thrown over her head in a rapturous pose. I looked constipated, my arms at my sides, jaw clenched, a forced, fake smile on my lips that came nowhere near my eyes. Shit.
Are you sure? A reply came in from the number that had to be Madison’s. Lily?
I pulled my shirt over my head, then typed out a reply. It’s great. Honest. I only look annoyed in the pic because I was fighting with our mom. It’s my favorite of the bridesmaid dresses I have so far. I realized that was an unintentional dig at Amy as soon as I said it, but I was too annoyed to care.
Fighting about the dress?
No, I lied firmly at the same time that Amy replied, Yes.
I rubbed my forehead. She meant yes, we’re sure we love the dress. No, I was fighting with my mom about something else.
“Amy, don’t you say a word,” I said as I came out of the dressing room.
She gave me a wounded look and my mother looked up in shock. “I didn’t—”
“I’m going home. I worked all day. I’ll talk to you both later.” I stopped at the front of the store, where the saleswoman was behind the desk. “Can I call to order when I get the go-ahead from my brother’s fiancée?” She told me that was fine, and I left without a backward glance.
“What’s her problem?” I heard my mother asking Amy before the door shut behind me.
I felt my phone vibrate with a text message as I slid behind the wheel of my car. “Amy, I swear to God,” I said out loud.
But it wasn’t Amy; it was Alex. Whatcha up to?
We had been texting fairly steadily since our lunch. It didn’t have the all-day, everyday urgency of a budding relationship—more like the comfortable give-and-take of a friend with whom you never quite ended the conversation. I couldn’t remember if I had told him I was going dress shopping tonight or not.
Attempting matricide. You?
As your lawyer, I’m going to have to advise you to refrain from texting me details of that if I’m to defend you in court.
No juror would side against me. They might even give me a medal.
In that case, let me know if you need help getting rid of the body. If I learned anything from Breaking Bad, it was to not dissolve a body in a bathtub.
I chuckled. Good to know.
The three dots appeared, then disappeared, and then reappeared. You wanna grab a drink?
There was no hesitation. I would love to grab a drink. Someplace with food preferably. I’m starving.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sharon called me the night before I was due to go bridesmaid dress shopping with her, her sister, her future sister-in-law, and her mother.
“We still on for tomorrow?” I asked. I was on my sofa, painting my nails—manicures were another casualty in the bridesmaid budget. And I still remembered Mrs. Meyer’s horrified reaction to my chewed-up nails in college. If I used part of a cotton ball on a cuticle stick in acetone, I could probably clean them up enough to meet her standards—or at least to fly under her radar.