“Okay then, I’ll just have to ask her about it. I’ll find out for myself. I can appreciate that.”
“Yeah, you can try,” Gentry says, almost snickering.
Challenge accepted.
4
Harper
Today is bridal party hell. Granted—and luckily—it’s only me, Cora, and the bride herself. It could be much worse. But it’s still hell. Cora couldn’t come down to shop for bridesmaids’ dresses before due to her work schedule. Now we’re in a boutique in town, trying on lace and satin and everything else the day after she arrived.
Lyla’s dress is ready, so it’s just Cora and I who need to find dresses. But we’re built differently, so finding a dress that works for both our figures, while also being comfortable, is proving to be difficult.
Lyla wants a classic look. Something sleeveless or with thin straps. For my frame, that’s not a problem. I’m not working with a lot up top. It’s a decent handful. A small handful, though; nothing will spill out of any dress. Cora, on the other hand, is built similarly to my sister. All boobs. Lots of boobs. Boobs everywhere. So some strapless numbers won’t work.
“What about this one?” Cora says, holding up a lilac floor length goddess number. It flows nicely, and I think the straps would be okay for both of us.
“I don’t really want lilac. Do they have it in another color?” Lyla asks from two racks over.
Cora replaces the dress and starts flipping through color options. “Green?”
“I shouldn’t even have to tell you no,” Lyla says.
“Gray?” Cora says.
“Wait, gray could work,” Lyla says.
We converge to where Cora is and rifle through the dresses. They have a few sizes in the gray and we find some that could possibly fit us.
“Dressing rooms?” I ask, and then we make our way toward the mirrors in the back.
“Okay, I think these are gonna work!” Lyla says. She’s standing there staring at me and Cora while we twirl and turn in front of the mirrors.
In truth, I actually like this dress. It feels light and comfortable, and it looks good on both of us. The color is approved. “What do you think?” I ask Cora.
“Girl, if the bride loves it and we even like it a little, I say we go for it.” Cora laughs.
We finish changing and pick out shoes and accessories to match the dresses then head to the register.
“Hey, ladies,” I hear from behind us.
We all turn to see Gentry and Jensen stepping into the shop, but I know Gentry’s voice, and Jensen is definitely the one who greeted us.
“Hey there,” Lyla says. “What are ya’ll doin’ in town?”
“I had to come pick up my tux and Jensen needed a suit,” Gentry says, gliding past everyone to wrap his arms around my sister. They’re disgusting. Like in that overly affectionate way that annoys all single people.
My sister wraps her arms around Gentry’s neck and asks him if he missed her last night.
“No! No, you’re not doing this here!” I exclaim in protest to the scene.
“I second that,” says Cora.
“Third,” says Jensen.
“We’re just about to pay. Does everyone want to get lunch?” my sister asks as she wrenches herself away from Gentry—finally—and we all nod.
“Ladies, if you’ll allow me.” Jensen steps up to me and Cora, reaching for his wallet.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Paying for my sister and my date’s wedding attire as a small token of my gratitude for letting me tag along. And also for the open bar that I will be killing.” Jensen laughs.
“Oh, no. I can’t let you do that,” I say.
“But I insist,” he says.
“But I insist harder,” I say firmly. Even though he’s already giving his credit card to the lady behind the counter, who’s smiling at him. Because he’s smiling at her. Not in a flirtatious way, but a naturally charming way. I can see why he’s a salesman.
“I’ll pay you back,” I say.
“Don’t even try,” Cora interjects. “This is just Jensen being Jensen.” She pats her baby brother on the shoulder and collects her shopping bags.
I collect mine and am utterly confused as to what just happened. Why exactly did he pay? What does “Jensen being Jensen” mean?
“Well, thank you,” I say. “But I still don’t really like it.”
“Well, you’re welcome,” he says. “And I guess I’ll just have to live with that knowledge.”
We all walk out onto the sidewalk and decide to get lunch at the diner across the street. After throwing our bags in the car, we walk over. Gentry and Lyla hold hands and bite each other’s necks like two idiots in love. Cora texts her stranger mystery date from the airplane and smiles like an idiot. And then Jensen and I bring up the rear, walking next to each other in an awkward silence like a different kind of idiots.
“I like the dresses you guys picked,” Jensen says.
“Oh, thanks. It was quite the ordeal for a while, but we finally managed.” More silence. His proximity alone causes me anxiety. I want to wring my hands but catch myself and force away the familiar habit.
I try to think back to the last time I was around any man who caused this sort of reaction in me. When Charles and I first met, he gave me butterflies. I remember that. It was so long ago, though. No one before or since has been in my life in that way. No one has caused my body any reaction. Stupid Jensen was at least proving I wasn’t dead inside, so I could thank him for that.
We enter the diner and take one of the larger, round booths in the corner. Everyone slides in until we’re all seated. Jensen is to my left on the outside of the booth and Cora is to my right, in the center of the booth. I’m wedged between the Reed siblings and becoming alarmingly aware of how beautiful they are as a set. Cora’s brilliant red hair and freckled pale skin feel radiant next to my dull blonde hair and farmer’s tanned skin. Jensen’s hair isn’t red, though the shade of brown is on the warmer side. Both of them have the silver-gray eyes. Mine are just blue, the most common color ever. So boring.
“I can say the alphabet backwards, you know,” Jensen whispers to me.
His statement startles me from my thoughts, and I realize for the last several minutes I’ve just been staring at the same spot on my menu. “What?”
“The alphabet. I can say it backwards,” he says proudly, still in a whispered tone.
“Um, okay.”
“It’s part of our game, Harper. Remember?”
Oh. Right. The get-to-know-each-other game that makes me want to die. “Oh, I see.”
“Now, it’s your turn,” he urges.
I try hard to think of anything about myself that sounds interesting and nothing comes to mind. “Um, well. I was a cheerleader in high school.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know I sound like an idiot.
“Do you still know the cheers?” he asks.
“Unfortunately. They’re like the songs stuck in your head you desperately wish brain damage would fix.” I laugh.
“Do you still have the uniform?” he asks, his smile doing something weird now.