Page 12 of Best Woman
“It’s a wedding.”
“Sure.” They walk to a clothing rack nearly buckling under the weight of what must be at least twenty gowns and start flipping through the hangers. “How do you feel about ass cleavage? Prada is all about VBC this season.”
“VBC?” I ask, not really wanting to know.
“Visible butt crack. There was aWomen’s Wear Dailyarticle about it.”
“I’ll make sure to mention that to the security guards as they drag me screaming from the synagogue.”
They start flinging dresses onto a chaise lounge. “Wonderful, but don’t let them grab you too hard. These are ‘borrowed,’ after all.” They even do the air quotes.
I slink back toward the vanity and hop up next to Kyle. “Why do I feel like we’re inThe Bling Ringand River is Emma Watson?”
Kyle snorts. “Did you see the look the doorman gave us on our way in? I’m pretty sure he was pressing a panic button under the desk.”
I take a sip of Hannah G’s expensive vodka. “Fabulous, theonly way this week could get more complicated is with an arrest.”
Kyle shoots me a sympathetic look. Of our little group, he’s the only one with an attention span long enough for emotional labor. River is the friend I call when I need a mindless night of clubbing. Daytona will read me to filth when I need to get my shit together and then do my makeup afterward. Kyle is the person who will drop everything and crawl into bed with me when I need a cuddle. We met at a yoga class six years ago, left early, had sex, and decided we were better off as sisters. When I guiltily confessed my scheme at Tony’s after I saw Kim last weekend, Kyle closed the bar early and turned up at my apartment withErin Brockovichopen on his laptop.
“How are you doing?” he asks. I know he wants the truth, not the bullshit—we’re all a bit too self-involved for faux sympathy—but it still feels like an emotional booby trap.
“Stupendous.” I sweep the hand holding my drink out to take in the room. “We’ve broken into the apartment of someone who currently has two songs on the Billboard Hot 100 and are stealing her extremely expensive clothing so I can con a hot lesbian into paying attention to me at my brother’s wedding.”
“It’s not stealing,” River corrects, holding up something pink and shiny. “It’sstyling. What about PVC? Though itmightsqueak when you walk down the aisle.”
“I won’t be walking down the aisle, remember? This dress is for the rehearsal dinner.”
“Then I’ll add it to the maybe pile.” They fling the dress into a pile of couture whose value would likely cover the down payment on Everett’s brownstoneanda custom sectional.
Kyle tops off my glass. “Are you OK? Still feeling…icky?”
There’s no use pretending in front of Kyle, in front of any of them. They’ve seen me at my lowest, the nights I cried after a co-worker called me the wrong name, or a girl I had a crush on said we’d be better as friends. Daytona gave me my first shot of estrogen, River showed me how to walk in heels, Kyle came with me to the courthouse to get my name legally changed and bought us oysters after. These are the people it’s OK for me to be ugly in front of, both physically and emotionally.
“I know I should feel bad but it’s just…twisting the truth.” There is a lot of very expensive and completely terrible art in Hannah G’s closet, along with a People’s Choice Award and someveryinteresting Polaroids featuring a certain Oscar winner. I didn’t know Hannah G was into British MILFs, another thing we have in common besides our waist-to-hip ratio.
“Yes, twisting it into alie,” River says, flinging a sequin skirt onto the pile.
“Maybe I’ve been feeling a little guilty.” A lot more than a little. “Fine, I feel like dog shit.”
“Atta girl,” says Kyle, relieved.
“We’ve been waiting for you to crack,” adds River, looking disdainfully at something large and covered with tulle.
“It’s about damn time, bitch.” Daytona saunters into the room, mercifully clothed, Birkin perched on her arm in a perfect imitation of an Upper East Side hedge fund wife. “You’ve been spiraling, and the only one who didn’t realize it wasyou.” She sidles up to River. “Would she miss the bag if it came home with me?”
“She’d hunt you down to the ends of the earth. Or at least the end of Williamsburg.”
Daytona sighs longingly and replaces the Birkin on a shelf fullof nearly identical bags in every shade imaginable. She turns back toward the vanity and cracks a grin. “At least the bitch won’t miss the champagne.” We’ve been chilling a bottle and Daytona pops it with practiced ease, pouring glasses for everyone. Then she fixes her deep brown eyes, always far too knowing, on me.
“You’ve completed step one, which was admitting that you’re a mess.”
I sniffle. “I don’t know if I’d use the wordmess—”
“I would. You’ve been quiet and moody and you keep snapping at everyone, and unless you’re trying to be so unclockable you’ve given yourself phantom PMS, we can admit your loathsome lesbian liaison is why.”
I shoot her a withering glare. “Oh no, you got me. I guess I should stop carrying tampons in my pursejust in case.”
Kyle inspects a pair of Hannah G’s diamond earrings. “I mean, they came in handy when River gave themself a deviated septum at the rave we went to under that bridge last year.”
