‘Dressy’ to rich kids like Vandy and Georgia probably includes a ball gown, but to me, it’s anything that rules out jeans or leggings.
She flings open the closet door and Jesus Christ. It’s easily the size of my bedroom at home. It’s jam-packed with clothes of every color and function. She has more shoes on one shelf than I’ve owned my entire life. I’m doing everything I can not to judge the Hall’s expensive, massive home. Vandy has visible challenges and if the rumors are true, has had some major struggles. Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean things are perfect, but damn. What I wouldn’t give to have grown up with this much space.
I peek my head in but feel too anxious about ruining something expensive to actually enter. “Do you know the Adamses?”
She flips through the hangers, stopping occasionally to consider a piece of clothing. “Actually, I do. Mrs. Adams is a kick-ass lawyer who really helped Reyn out of a jam last year. I know there’s like, this preconceived notion that people like them are just do-gooders and over-compensating for something, but they’re a really great family. They actually believe in helping people.”
I snort. “Then what are they doing sending their kids to a school like Preston?”
“Hey!” She gives me an affronted look, but then laughs. “We’re not all bad, but I get it. Trust me, the Adams kids have suffered more than their share of abuse from the dickheads at Preston. All I know is their parents are both alumni and the kids actually choose to go.” She pulls out three different dresses, sizing them up. “Thank god, can you imagine how dull things would be without Micha?”
I smile, remembering our conversation from earlier in the day. “He definitely marches to the beat of his own tuba.”
She flutters past me in a whirl of fabric, tossing things onto her wide bed. “The only thing you need to really know about their parents is that they appreciate genuine things. So you should choose whatever here is most ‘you’.” She plants a hand on each hip, nodding her head in approval at the selection she’s curated.
I gnaw on a nail as I look over the choices, instantly nixing something unapologetically pink. There’s a dark purple dress that could work, edged in a fine-looking lace around the neck and sleeves, but it’s too nice. I’d spend all night worrying about staining it.
There’s a black, knee-length dress that flares out prettily, but also looks perfectly plain. The neck scoops a little lower than I’m used to, but the fabric looks nice and hardy—no delicate lace or fussy material. It wouldn’t be completely weird to wear my boots with, either.
“I think that’s my guy,” I say pointing to the dress.
She doesn’t look surprised. “Good choice! And don’t worry, I have a good bra to go with it.”
I change in her closet, feeling awkward as I stuff my tits into the bra. The awkwardness only amplifies when I get the dress over my head, feeling it swish around my knees, and then look down. Holy shit. My tits are unreal in this thing. I spend a moment adjusting the waist before submitting mys
elf to Vandy’s inspection.
She gives a gleeful clap. “You need a necklace—oh, a choker! And some earrings!”
Resigned to being a sentient mannequin, I let Vandy deck me out in some of her jewelry, making sure she isn’t giving me anything even remotely valuable.
“I got this as a free gift with another purchase, it’s literally nothing,”
I stay painfully still as I hold my hair up, letting her secure the necklace. The thing about Sebastian being a stubborn bastard is that I’m beginning to realize he may be right. Every time he touches me, it’s a little less awful. It’s not always a big thing. Usually, they’re little grazes, light touches. In Dr. Ross’s class, he almost always spends her lectures playing with my hair, running his fingers through it, winding it around a wrist, sweeping it back off my neck. Sometimes, it’s enough to make me shiver at the feel of it, sparks flying across my nerves like pyrotechnics.
“Thanks,” I say, fiddling with the cord. I take a moment to come to terms with the fact that a pair of dog tags doesn’t exactly go with the ensemble. With a tight inhale, I lift them over my head, feeling uncomfortable as I tuck them into my bag.
Vandy waves off my gratitude. “I should be thanking you. We all should. Bass has really been different since you came along. Less frantic and reckless all the time.”
I feel doubtful about that, but maybe his friends don’t realize just how much Sebastian trying to get with me was also reckless, in its own way. “He still races and stuff,” I argue.
She gives me a look. “Well, yeah. Bass is gonna Bass. But he’s also not coming back to school every weekend with a split lip and two black eyes. Or impulse buying a bunch of useless crap. Or getting trashed every Monday night with Carlton and his buddies. Or going out of his way to get shoved in the hall. I mean,” her expression turns thoughtful as she peeks out her curtains at the driveway below. “Some of that is the concussion. He really is trying to be better, so he can get back to playing. But there’s a difference between the way he was white-knuckling it before and how he’s acting now. He actually seems… settled. Happy.”
“That might not have anything to do with me,” I insist, even though a part of me hopes I’m wrong. I want to be the one to make him better, the way he makes me better. The way he can touch me and wait for it to be bearable so I can actually enjoy it. The way I was able to let Vandy’s fingertips brush my neck before and not have a complete meltdown about it.
She just shakes her head. “Trust me, it does. You’re dating now, right? Like for real together?”
I feel myself flush at my stuttered confession, “Uh, yeah, we’re… together. Whatever that means around here.”
Vandy laughs. “Why? What does it mean where you come from?”
“A lot of sex, fighting, and statistically, an unplanned pregnancy?”
She pulls a face. “Well, for the record, anyone can get condoms at the health counselor’s office. Preston’s never been conservative where sex-ed is concerned. But usually, dating at Preston involves a lot of secrecy, because our parents are the biggest drama llamas of all. At least you and Bass don’t have to worry about that.”
Great, something else to worry about. “Yeah, I’m sure his rich parents will be thrilled to learn he’s dating Cliff trash.”
“Hey,” she says, frowning. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. And I’ve never known the Wilcoxes to interfere in their kids’ lives like that. They’re pretty hands-off.”