Page 42 of Bombshells
“No! I’m not going.”
“What?”
Charli yanks the curtain aside, and now she and Fiona are staring at me. “Damn girl!” Charli says. “I’d fuck you. Holy hell.”
Embarrassed, I laugh. “One vote of confidence, then?”
“Two!” Fiona adds. “You look so beautiful. So what’s this bullshit about not going?”
And now I guess I have to explain myself. “I just don’t see the point. I’m trying to get over him. Why would I try to seduce him?” Not to mention that I’ve never seduced anyone. The odds of failure are high.
“You’re trying to get over him,” Fiona repeats. “But how’s that going? Are you still mad?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Of course I am.”
“So he’s still on your mind?” Charli clarifies.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “Okay, often. But that’s just because I spent years thinking about him. And my mother thought we’d end up together.”
“But you’re letting him off the hook,” Fiona presses. “He owes you a real conversation about his feelings. He keeps ducking that by telling you he’s waiting for the right contract extension or what-the-fuck-ever!”
“Yes,” Charli agrees. “Exactly.”
“And this dress is going to make him see that?” I ask, waving my hands in front of my scantily clad self.
“Men can be simple, visual creatures,” Fiona says. “One look at you in this dress and the man will not be able to treat you like his little sister. Because he will realize, on a gut level, that the other men at this party will all start drooling when you walk through the door.”
“If I had those cheekbones…” Charli sighs.
“Or those legs.” Fiona shrugs. “This is about messaging. And waking that man out of his stupor. Whether you seduce him or not is beside the point.”
“It’s a ‘Come to Jesus moment,’ with your tits and your ass,” Charli finishes. “If he doesn’t want to dance with you—vertically or horizontally—he’ll understand that you’re moving on without him.”
I do like the sound of that. Thinking about Bryce all this time hasn’t done me any favors. “All right. I get it. I’ll go.”
“Yay!” Fiona claps her hands together. “Can I pin it, then?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
At the store, we’d realized this dress had one flaw, which was that one half of the hook and eye at the back of the neck was missing. Fiona had suggested to the saleswoman that the flaw deserved a discount.
To my surprise, the saleswoman had agreed on the spot. “I think I could take thirty percent off,” she’d said. “You can take it to a dry cleaner and ask them to repair it.”
The price cut got me over my indecision, and I got out my credit card on the spot. There wasn’t time to fix the hook and eye, though, so Fiona promised to pin me in to the dress. “Come here,” she says, wielding a tiny safety pin.
“And then let’s do your eyes,” Charli says now, opening her bag.
“I already did,” I argue.
“Let me,” Charli says. “Please?”
Oh dear. I’ve never even seen Charli wear makeup. And now she wants to paint my face? “Um…”
“Let me show you,” she says. “If you don’t like it, you can remove it and I promise not to be offended.” She opens a compact with several shades of brown, gray, and gold shadows. “Sit down out here on the sofa.”
I follow her back out front, because it’s easier than arguing. And makeup is removable, right?
“Close your eyes. Keep them closed.”
