Hard to understand, but still, I’m grateful not to be the only odd girl out. Since my eighteenth birthday, I’ve been a member of ten wedding parties and was just asked to join our friend Dinah’s bridesmaid crew last week. At this rate, I’ll have a dozen bridesmaid dresses collecting dust in my parents’ garage before my birthday in October.
A collection of bridesmaid dresses, but not even a hint that a wedding of my own might be in the near future. The past few months, my dating life has been dismal. Even before I started crushing on Nick. Every allegedly sweet boy my matchmaking nana set me up with proved to be more annoying, self-centered, and uninspiring than the last.
It’s enough to make a girl want to give up on the opposite sex altogether…if there wasn’t an irresistible bad boy in tight black jeans strutting around under her nose every day at work.
Geez…the strutting! It would be laughable if he didn’t look so darned good doing it.
“If I ever want to get laid again, I guess I need a makeover or something,” Kitty says, pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks with a groan. “But I hate makeup soooo much.”
“You don’t need it! You’re pretty the way you are, mama.”
“Right.” Kitty rolls her eyes.
“You are!” I insist. “If I liked girls, I’d be all up in your business. I think you’re smokin’ hot.”
“And I think you’re drunk and falling out of the top of your dress.” Kitty snorts and points at my chest.
I glance down again, blinking in surprise to discover even more unruly boob-age spilling out of the V-neck of my purple dress. I chose this dress for this exact effect, but it’s still a little shocking to see so much of myself on display.
Shocking and a little exciting…
It isn’t just feeling starved for another taste of Bad Boy that’s been different lately. I’ve felt restless, experimental, tempted to push the limits and bend the rules in a way I never have before.
A part of my brain insists it’s just a risqué dress and not a big deal, but another part wonders what the heck is happening and how far this will go before I revert to my old self?
“Tug that thing up and get out of there,” Kitty presses. “Let’s go have coffee and donuts. Sober up. I shouldn’t drive right now.”
“Me either,” I say, my stomach rumbling at the mention of donuts. I could definitely go for a fresh glazed or two.
I wade to the edge of the fountain, enjoying the way the cool water swishes between my toes. My high-heeled sandals were killing me. I can’t wait for the late September heat to fade so I can pull out my comfy boots with the wool lining and slip back into cozy fall sweaters and, hopefully, a less tumultuous state of mind.
Maybe it’s just the lingering summery weather that’s made me…hotter than usual.
I step out onto the sidewalk and slip my damp feet into my sandals with a resigned sigh, wishing bare feet were socially acceptable. “Where to?” I ask, propping my hands on my hips. “Donut Time Diner or Dippin Donuts?”
“Donut Time. Obviously,” Kitty says. “Having to dip my donut in coffee to make it soft enough to chew is sacrilege.”
“Agreed,” I say, looping my arm through hers as we wander down the street toward the older part of downtown Bliss River.
At eleven thirty on a Thursday night, the downtown area is quiet. The click of my heels on the pavement and the muffled music pulsing from behind the thick metal door of The Horse and Rider at the end of Main Street are the only sounds.
The Horse and Rider is the only place—aside from Bliss River’s many churches—where a person can regularly catch live music in our sleepy little town. The bar also has a reputation for attracting a rough crowd after ten o’clock. I’ve been old enough to get into a bar for nearly two years now, but I’ve never even thought about going to the honky-tonk, even though I’ve been a huge fan of live music since my sister, Aria, took me to my first all-ages show in Atlanta when I was sixteen.
But I’m a “nice girl,” and nice girls don’t go to places like The Horse and Rider.
Nice girls volunteer at the retirement home, go to church at least once a week, head to bed before midnight, and watch their language in polite company. I try not to cuss, but when I really need to drop an “f-bomb,” I make darned sure it doesn’t happen in front of my parents, Nana, or anyone who might report back to the above.
And that’s all good. I’ve always liked being a “nice girl.” It’s a way of life that’s come relatively easily for me.
But for some reason, the throbbing beat pulsing from behind the honky-tonk’s door calls to me tonight in a way it hasn’t before.