Page 61 of Ladybirds

Sara rolls her eyes and takes the dress back into the dressing room to take a closer look without an audience. To be fair, it’s not all lace—just the high neckline and the capped sleeves. The bottom half is a softer, stretchier material that feels like it could potentially be comfortable.

Still, Jen’s not wrong about her usual distaste for lace.

With a silent groan, she slips it on—fingers fumbling with the button at the back of her neck before she turns to the skinny piece of mirror they’ve fit on the dressing room wall.

She stares.

From the front, the dress is modest. Completely covering her chest and capping her shoulders while still being form fitting. The extra fabric across her front seems to highlight the long expanse of her legs (though the effect is slightly ruined by her pink socks). She turns, admiring the way the low V accentuates the line of her spine, and gives a breathy laugh.

Leave it to Seth to find the one dress that would change her opinion on lace.

The bass hits deep, an echo over her heart; lyrics springing from her lips half a beat late. Sweat makes her hair stick to the back of her neck, and in some distant part of her, she’s thankful she cut it short. The alcohol is buzzing under her skin, making her lightheaded and warm. The dress hugs her, a second skin that stretches with every twist of her hips.

It’s all flashing lights and music, sweat rolling between her shoulder blades and panting, humid breath. Jen and Mary dance beside her, looking way more balanced than she is and far less out of breath. Sara’s legs ache, her feet begging her to strip out of her stilettos and go barefoot. It would be a lot more tempting if she couldn’t feel her soles sticking to the concrete floor with every step. Still, with every song the pain in her calves and arches becomes more persistent, until it becomes enough for her to tap the bride-to-be on the shoulder and shout over the music, “I’m gonna go rest for a sec!”

Jen nods, shouting back, “Okay!” Then her arms are around Sara’s neck, her lips pressing against her cheek in a clumsy kiss. “I love you!”

Sara laughs, because drunk Jen loves everyone. “Love you, too! I’ll be back!” She has to push her way through the crowd to get to the outskirts, but the air already feels a little less thin. There are no available chairs, but there’s an empty corner that calls to her like a siren.

She leans against the wall, the brick shockingly cool against her back in comparison to the humidity in the room, and catches her breath. Distantly, in the part of her brain that’s still pretending sobriety, she realizes she’s not the only one taking a break from the crowd. Her head lolls, eyes taking a moment to focus enough to recognize that the man looking back at her—brows raised—is a familiar one. “You’re here,” she blurts.

His lips quirk. “And you’re intoxicated.”

Sara doesn’t bother denying it.

His hands busy themselves, straightening his sleeves. “The music is barbarically loud. I can’t say I see the appeal.”

Watching the way his fingers fiddle with his cuff, a muddled thought breaks through the fog. “Were you watching me?”

He stills, mouth twisting into a sardonic smile. “Yes,” he hisses. “And even as addled as you are, I’m sure you can see how unfairly you phrased that.”

Frowning, she tries to understand, but his words slip away faster than she can interpret them. “Ok.”

Seth’s brows arch, his foul mood disappearing nearly as quickly as it came. “My, no argument?” His eyes look over her, lips curling into a teasing smile. “Now I’m certain that last round of tequila has hit.”

Sara blanches, the burn in her throat still as present as the warmth lingering behind her ribs. “God, I hate tequila.”

“Yes, you looked right miserable choking it down,” he says, chuckling. “I suspect it would be in your best interest to start drinking something without warnings on the label. The bride-to-be doesn’t appear to be slowing down at all.”

Nodding, Sara finds Jen still dancing her heart out in the crowd. “This was always more her scene.”

“It shows. She’s quite adept at—what is it you call it? Dropping it like it’s hot?”

Sara snorts on a laugh, hand covering her smile. “Please, stop.”

“What, precisely, am I stopping?”

“Trying to sound cool,” she teases.

Hand splayed over his heart, he puts on a mask of offense. “Don’t be salty because I’m out here high key slaying your ridiculous vernacular.”

“Oh my god,” she laughs, hiding her face in her hands.

He grins. “I believe you call that a clap back.”

“Stop.”

“Are you… shook?”

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