Someone who’s good. Someone who knows what to do with me.
Someone not her.
• • •
By the next day, I’ve convinced myself, as always, that she deserved it. Olivia acted like a bitch. Saying that shit about how I could use a brother now that I was down one? What a fucking pig.
When her mom went and hung herself two months after her father’s death, have I ever brought that up? Did I ever use it against her? What I do to her doesn’t even come close to how nasty that comment was yesterday.
And then she had the fucking gall to cry.
Grabbing the parking ticket that I got a year ago out of the glove box, I climb out of my car, carrying my purse, and slide the ticket under the windshield wiper before slamming the door.
I jump up onto the sidewalk, ignoring the sign that says no parking after four. My phone rings, and I pull it out of my purse, seeing Callum’s name on the screen.
“Where are you?” he asks without a hello.
“Picking up my debutante monstrosity.”
“Aw, you’ll be beautiful.”
I laugh under my breath. “Maybe underneath.”
“Is that a taunt?”
“A dare,” I retort, stopping at the door to Lavinia’s. “A box of Cuban cigars that you can’t get it off of me on ball night.”
He falls silent, and I wait, my hand on the door. Was that too bold?
Then, he finally asks, “Real Cubans?”
I smile. Despite my feelings for Callum being complicated, he knows how to play. “They’re only illegal to poor people,” I tell him.
I open the door, stepping inside.
“And if you win, what do you want?” he asks.
“A box of Cuban cigars.”
A snort escapes him.
I walk into the shop, the crystal chandeliers glowing overhead, and I immediately cast a glance around, not seeing her. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
“Can’t wait to see you in the dress,” he says.
“Well, you’re gonna have to, unfortunately.” I sigh, seeing no one at the counter. “See you at school tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
I hang up, slipping my phone into my bag, and I’m about to call out for Lavinia, but she appears from the back room, her lipstick looking eggplant against her purple dress.
“Morning,” I chirp.
“Clay!” She holds up her hand as if to stop me. “I want you to try on your dress before you take it, okay? Just to make sure.”
Do I have to? I was hoping to only have the wear that damn thing one more time. On ball night.
“It’s in the dressing room,” she says. “Do you have time?”
“I…” But I can’t think fast enough. “Sure.”
I follow her to the dressing room, dropping my purse and closing the curtain after she leaves.
I don’t have my underthings—the right bra or anything—so this shit won’t fit like it’s supposed to.
Which could work in my favor if Lavinia doesn’t realize it and the dress isn’t ready in time. I could borrow my mom’s spaghetti strap, silver Balenciaga instead. In a crunch, she won’t make me cry by saying no.
I strip down, unzip the dress bag, but then Lavinia flips something over the drapes, a strapless bra with a quick, “Here you go, honey!”
I hold in my groan. “Thank you!”
Snatching the undergarment, I wrap it around my front, fitting my breasts into the cups, and reach behind me with both hands to try to fasten the hooks.
But there’s no way I’m going to get them connected by just feeling. “Help,” I call out.
I struggle with the clasps, sucking in my stomach and turning around so I can look behind me in the mirror to see what I’m doing.
But then the curtain suddenly opens, and I see Liv standing there in the mirror.
Where’s Lavinia?
I stop breathing for a split-second as she stares at me and I stare at her, and I don’t know what she’s going to do. I look for a Sharpie on her but don’t see one.
Her black jeans hug her body like a second skin and her black T-shirt is cut off mid-way, her stomach tight and smooth as it peeks out. The white baseball cap she has on backward is almost blue from how many times it’s been bleached, and I gaze at that dark tunnel between the hair that spills around her and her neck, an urge to just want to bury myself in…
I swallow, noticing the faint remnants of the Sharpie on her stomach.
“Where’s Lavinia?” I ask, steeling my voice.
She cocks her head a little and her eyes instantly drop to my panties.
The black lace ones.
Hers.
She meets my eyes again, and then she steps in, closes the curtain, and yanks me around, fastening the corset.
“A little pent up frustration over the separate shower stalls after freshman year?” I say. “Seizing your last chance to see me naked?”
“Nothing to see,” she mumbles. “You still look the same as you did when we were fourteen.”