The Enemy (It Happened in Charleston 2)
“BYE!!”
Then, she’s gone, and I let the sad music drown my soul once again, thankful that Ryan isn’t here to make it worse. And will someone please tell me when I’ll stop thinking about him?
Chapter Six
June
“All right, take off your clothes,” says Miss Mable as if I’m used to hearing that phrase on the regular.
“Right here?” I look around the empty seamstress’ shop and, despite its vacancy, don’t relish the idea of stripping in public. “I think I’ll just go in the dressing—”
“Fooey, nonsense!” says the million-year-old seamstress stripping the shirt right off my body and tossing it somewhere across the room. “The curtains are covering the windows, and the rest of the wedding party isn’t due here for another fifteen minutes. None of those boys will see your boobies if we hurry.”
My eyes go wide. “Boys?”
Miss Mable is mercilessly peeling the jeans off my hips, and Stacy is holding in her laughter so hard that tears leak down her face. I swear, she looks like she’s going to burst a blood vessel from all that repressed laughter when Mable tosses my jeans to the far end of the room—right next to the shirt I wish I was still wearing.
“Actually, it’s only Ryan coming,” Stacy says, chuckles bubbling through her words. And now I understand why this scenario is so funny to her. “He’s the only other one that needs any alterations.”
“Oh my gosh! You’re kidding!” Suddenly, I feel stark naked standing in the middle of a seamstress’ shop in my bra and panties. I hurry to cover myself with my hands as if that will keep Ryan from seeing all of my bits if he were to show up early.
Miss Mable thinks I’m only being shy in front of her. She bats my hands away from covering my boobs. “Oh, stop that. I’d kill to have my body look like that again. You ought to parade it around the square right now instead of hiding it behind your hands.”
I don’t care to be the grand marshal for that parade, though. I lunge for the midnight-blue bridesmaid gown and have to pry it from Mable’s wrinkly hands. But let me tell you, this old woman is strong, because she is not letting this dress go without a fight. Maybe she wanted to measure me before I put it on? I don’t know, but it seems like she’s trying to make me confident in my own skin through immersion therapy. If she has it her way, I’ll be naked all day.
“Quick, shove me into this thing!” My eyes are frantic, and I look like someone just announced an impromptu sack-race that I’m now the most eager participant of. I’m hopping and shimmying into this dress as if a million dollars are on the line. Really, though, what’s on the line is my butt. I’ll die before I let Ryan’s greedy eyes get a peek at my rear end.
Stacy is doubled over laughing. Really, I’ve never seen her crack up so much. She thinks the prospect of Ryan sauntering in here and seeing me in my unmentionables is hilarious. Have I said how much I hate her?
“I’m going to cut up your wedding dress like a paper snowflake if you don’t help me zip this up!”
She does, but she takes her sweet time, laughing harder with every tiny inch the zipper rises. “There, you’re decent again.” She wipes her eyes and looks a little disappointed that the situation didn’t play out like she was imagining. “I’ve never seen you move so fast! I swear”—she pauses for more laughter—“it looked like you just discovered your super-speed powers or something.”
“Hilarious,” I say, deadpan.
I catch my breath while Miss Mable turns me, pokes me (with a pin twice), and admonishes me for squirming over the next ten minutes. I can’t stand still, though. The devil will walk through the front door any minute, and I REFUSE to be standing here with my hands in the air like I’m surrendering in our war. I plan on being long gone before Ryan arrives.
“Alrighty, I’ll take in an inch on either side, and you’ll be good to go. Should be ready for you to pick back up in two days. You can take it off now.” She’s reaching for the zipper again, but I side-step her and make a break for the dressing rooms.
“I’ll toss the gown over the door for you,” I say, and Miss Mable frowns. I’m starting to wonder if she and Stacy are in on some sort of quest to embarrass me in front of Ryan. It’s ridiculous, of course. They would never do that.
But still…I lock the door to the dressing room.
I turn around and look in the mirror, almost not recognizing the woman staring back at me. This gown fits like a glove, hugging, lifting, and smoothing in all the right places. I silently thank Stacy for not being one of those brides who chooses an ugly dress for her bridesmaids. You all get bright-orange dresses with fifteen pounds of added ruffles! Enjoy!
No, this dress is nothing short of lovely. It has a sweetheart neckline and dainty spaghetti straps. The bodice is made from a stiff material that is tight and flattering, but this skirt has layers and layers of soft sheer fabric that cascade like a waterfall from my waist to the floor. It looks as if I should be going to an award show with a red carpet where photographers shout my name rather than a wedding.
Miss Mable’s scratchy voice cuts through the stall door, and I jump a mile off the floor. “Almost done in there?”
I hurry and unzip the dress before sliding it off and tossing it over the door. I watch the fabric disappear and hear Miss Mable shuffle off.
Turning back to the mirror, I play with my hair, getting ideas for how to have it styled for the wedding while I wait for Stacy to toss my clothes over to me. But now that the dress is off, a familiar discomfort creeps up my spine. My eyes fall from my brown hair to my chest. Not much to see there. My boobs are small—nothing to write home about. I assess my hips next, pinching the excess squish I find on each side. I’ve been running incessantly for two years, and still, I can’t get rid of my curves. I blame it on my squat height. And don’t even get me started about my thighs. They—
I cut myself off mid-critique because I hate that I do this. I hate that I have body image issues that I can’t seem to get over. I can fake it in public, but when I’m alone, I can’t hold it back.
Suddenly, I’m suspicious that Miss Mable is wiser than I gave her credit for. Maybe she’s my mystical life guru, sent to help me purge the flaws lurking in my soul. Becoming a nudist seems like an odd way to better myself, but who am I to argue with a guru? Because, yeah, I don’t like to be naked, or even look anything less than perfectly put together. It’s the only way I keep my ex’s voice out of my head.
“Not attracted to you anymore.”