Chapter Sixteen

Piper

"Who got engaged again, exactly?"

I've been staring at my open suitcase for the better part of twenty minutes, flicking uselessly through the small selection of clothes I brought along with me, haphazardly packed in the half hour Tate gave me before we left Minneapolis. Nothing screams formal. Nothing screams engagement party at all. I could maybe go with the white dress again in a pinch, but from the tone of Fallon's invitation, it's too casual, and I know it's cliche, but I hate repeating outfits.

"Gibson, my brother," Tate answers, lounging on the sofa. I envy the versatility of menswear. He can wear the same button down and slacks to an engagement party that he wears at a luncheon, as long as they aren't wrinkled, and no one will bat an eye. All he has to do is slip on a tie and suddenly he looks like the cover of GQ.

"This one is the mechanic?"

He grunts in response, scrolling through his social media feed. "Not anymore. Apparently, he's been working undercover as a voiceover actor. His bride to be is a best-selling author and aspiring screenwriter. They're both trying to make it out in LA."

I stare at the clothes one last time, before falling onto the bed in a heap of defeat.

"So you're not the only Story with another story," I chuckle at my own play on words, but when I stare into my suitcase again I groan. "I told you we weren't going to be here for just three days."

"You were right. I was wrong. Happy?"

"Not exactly. If you'd have told me that we were going to be going to an engagement party, I'd have packed a nice dress." Watching him continue to be absorbed in his phone is making me twitchy. I have to focus my eyes on the ceiling to quell the urge to wallop him with a pillow. Is this what real couples feel like? It's like he's not listening to me. Like he doesn't even see me unless we're naked.

I blow my bangs skyward. "Now… I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Answer the door."

His reply is so cavalier and unexpected that I don't quite know what to do with it. "What?"

Before he says anything else, there's a quick sharp burst of knocks at the door. I turn and glare at Tate, certain that something is fishy about this. "Suddenly, you're a psychic?"

He shrugs, watching me nervously pad over to the door. I open it to find a very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Fallon.

"Are you here to solve my dress problem?" I ask tentatively.

Fallon beams in response. "Grab your purse. I'm driving."

As I start to reach for my things on the nightstand, I see Tate waving a piece of thick silver plastic in the air toward me. At the very least, he was smart enough to not choose the Amex Black card, but the idea of him just waving money around doesn't really fall in line with the ‘totally normal, not a billionaire' narrative we're trying to cement here. I pretend not to see it, absentmindedly toying with my shoelaces, resolved to pay for things myself and have him reimburse me behind the scenes. Fallon isn't so easily distracted, and she swipes the card from his hand before I can protest.

"Thanks, bro," she sings, slipping it into her wallet, then linking her arm in mine and leading me toward the door.

"Don't say I never did anything for you," he calls behind us, and Fallon laughs brightly.

His sister isn't very forthcoming about where she's taking me. All I can get out of her before the Jeep comes to a stop somewhere downtown is that I should think of her as my fairy godmother for the day. I certainly thought I looked better than a pre-makeover Cinderella, mopping floors and sweeping out chimneys, but I'm thankful for the gesture, nonetheless. Even if Tate is footing the bill.

After a parallel parking job so ruthlessly efficient it leaves me both rattled and awestruck, Fallon leads me up a concrete curb in front of a small brick row of storefronts. The one on the end, Frocks with Faith, is her final destination. She's briefly distracted by a sales rack out front, thumbing through a row of colorful cardigans marked down half-off. Humming along, she holds out a three-quarter length sleeve cerulean sweater for me to examine before she catches herself, remembering why we came here in the first place. She shelves the sweater with a wistful backward glance, then sallies forth through the door, the bell on top tinkling as we enter.

"Hey there," a mousey looking brunette girl smiles warmly at Fallon, coming around the counter to envelope her in a soft hug. She doesn't look the way one would imagine an employee trying to sell clothes would generally look. Wearing a modest khaki skirt that goes all the way down to her calves, with the requisite white cardigan and simple loafers, she looks like she should work with the elderly or teach bible school. "How can I help you today?"

"Piper, Faith. Faith, Piper." Fallon waves a hand back and forth between us. "This is my brother's girlfriend, who I'm sure you've heard about. She's going to Gibson and Avery's party tonight. We need something that will go with black and rhinestone fuck me heels. Tate isn't quite where he should be in my honest opinion. He needs a little push."

Faith reddens immediately, swallowing with a short cough. "Fallon, I don't know what that means. Please be more specific."

"Sexy dress. Cleavage. Leg. Maybe even backless." Fallon explains with a roll of her eyes and a yawn. Even the word ‘sexy' makes Faith's skin crawl, and Fallon enjoys every minute of the torment. "What do you have?"

Her friend blinks, mouth opening and closing as she fiddles with a strand of hair that's fallen from her severe bun. She starts to make a noise of protest, but Fallon cuts her off with a laugh, striding over to a rack of dresses along the wall. Her arms disappear into the folds of clothing, flipping through the garments with purpose, pausing occasionally to look over my body with an unsettling intensity, glancing back and forth between the dress in her hands and the approximate size of my measurements.

As I glance around, I realize that stepping into Frocks with Faith is like walking into a pastel dream, where each garment promises a blend of style and modesty. The shop is a cozy tapestry of vintage chic and modern flair, with walls adorned in soft, creamy hues and wooden floors that creak gently underfoot. Delicate lace dresses and floral prints mingle with bold geometric patterns, all neatly displayed on ornate wrought iron racks that line the room. A small chandelier casts a warm, inviting glow over a display of handcrafted jewelry and accessories, while the scent of lavender and vanilla wafts from a diffuser, adding a tranquil ambiance. At the far corner, a plush velvet settee offers a spot for contemplation or weary shoppers, surrounded by framed photos of local fashion icons of yesteryears, each telling a story of elegance and grace.

Faith watches with an amused grin as Fallon shoves dresses into my arms faster than I can examine them, before turning me around and pushing me toward a dressing room behind a thick canvas curtain with such force that I nearly stumble right in. I can see where Tate gets his fixation during a project. It must be something in the gene pool.

The first dress is a misfire. It fits, but it definitely isn't me. Sitting just above my knees, with a babydoll cut, puffy sleeves, and the heaviest white knock-off satin I've ever felt in my life, it looks like I've stolen my baby cousin's confirmation dress. Then there's a violently pink number with a peplum so wide I feel like I'm nothing but a pair of hips. I'm about to cry with laughter at the next dress, a rectangular shift dress that stops just below my ass, and has a bow the size of a small child across the chest. As I'm trying to unzip myself from what I can only describe as a bridesmaids dress for a circus clown or haunted Victorian doll, I get distracted by Faith and Fallon's conversation a few feet from the curtain between us.

"Girl, you need to loosen up a little," Fallon teases between the scraping sounds of hanger hooks sliding across metal display rods.

"I'm loose," Faith insists. "I'm loose while still trying to avoid eternal damnation."

So my instincts about the loafers and white cardigan combo were correct. Someone's Sundays are booked for the rest of her natural life. I don't think she'd be too keen on the next dress Fallon's chosen for me. It's gorgeous, but I'm terrified that if I sneeze or breathe wrong one of my generous boobs is going to make a grand and public escape from the flimsy red lace.

"Yeah. Being the reverend's daughter is the exact opposite of loose," Fallon replies. "And if you're worried about going to hell, don't. All the cool kids will be there. I'll save you a seat."

I stifle a giggle in the dressing room, trying not to mortify poor Faith any further than Fallon already has. Turning to look at my reflection in the mirror, I wince before opening my eyes, bracing myself for this next dress to be as much of a failure as the others have been. Instead, I'm greeted by something that could have been tailor made for me. It isn't real silk, and doesn't carry a real silk price tag, but is close enough that it could have fooled me. The microprint floral fabric flows down to my calves, nipping in tight at the waist and turning romantic and drapey as it extends. The sweetheart neckline and halter straps give it a feminine, retro feel that highlight my decolletage without feeling vampy or like I'm taking too much attention away from the bride to be.

It's absolutely perfect.

I do a satisfied spin in the mirror, smiling like a goon, before peeling it over my head and changing back into my clothes. The Cinderella analogy comes back to haunt me, and looking at my reflection in the orange sweatshirt and brown shorts I wore over here, I feel more than a bit like I've been turned from a princess back into a pumpkin. I try to shrug it off, straightening my shoulders and stepping out from behind the curtain with my armful of rejected frocks and single success.

Faith tries not to look at me, knowing that I must've heard her conversation with Fallon. Fallon ignores her discomfort, paying for my dress alongside the blue sweater she had been eyeing so intently out on the sidewalk. "See you at the chocolate making?"

"No," Faith sighs, shaking her head. "Much like life, I wasn't matched."

Fallon turns to look back at me with a grimace, before smiling back at Faith. "How about tonight then?"

"I'll be there. I've seen the way they look at each other," Faith smiles wistfully, pausing with her hands on the bag as she loses herself in thought, a slight blush creeping across her cheeks. "I bet they can't wait for their wedding night."

"For what?" Fallon snorts, taking the bag from Faith's hands. "You don't actually think they're waiting, do you? Everyone who reads Sunset Fake pretty much knows they're already consummated."

This Sunset Fake person really has this entire town in a death grip. I can't imagine someone expending this much time and energy to harass the residents of a town with a population smaller than my college campus. Faith looks away in embarrassment, her lips growing taught. Fallon reaches across the counter, squeezing her hand gently.

"Girl, we have got to get you out of Daddy's house. There's nothing wrong with people pleasuring each other. God, wouldn't have given us all genitals if he didn't want us to use them for more than procreation."

Fallon turns and leaves before Faith can start quoting scripture, and I follow her out of the store and back out to the car, trying not to laugh.

"She went so pale, I thought she was going to pass out." I check myself out in the car window, examining my hair for split ends and noting that I've let the texture get a lot drier than I'd like it to be. Maybe I should finally get one of those silk pillowcases I keep seeing advertised. Regardless, Fallon's already informed me that the next item on our agenda is to get ‘something done about that mess on my head.' Her words, not mine.

"It's good for her. I'm trying to normalize sex between two loving beings. She's wound so tight, she could be married and still die a virgin. When they start talking about those old wives' tales where a woman's vagina gets sealed shut from lack of use, there will be Faith's picture."

While I can't imagine carrying that amount of stress around with me at all times, I can also step back and admire her restraint. If I had that kind of self-discipline, I wouldn't have slipped between the sheets with Tate again, and I wouldn't be so worried about how things will be when we leave this town. In the meantime, I guess the only thing left for me to do is lean into the vacation lifestyle, and look as good as I possibly can for this party tonight. Though who I'm trying so hard to look good for is a mystery to me.