Page 167 of Remy

x Rem

My stomach fills with static.

I drop the paper and rush to snatch at the top of the bag to lower the zipper, exposing an intricately plaited black satin bodice with a strapless sweetheart neckline.

My breath catches at the beauty. “Holy shit.”

I wrap my arms delicately underneath the material, dragging out the billowing floor-length skirt.

“Oh, wow.”

It’s stunning and far too classy for someone like me.

I didn’t go to prom. Hell, I don’t even own a strapless bra. But God, it’s so pretty.

I wish I could call Allison and Ivy and tell them all about it. They’d freak. Then they’d squeal. Then they’d gush about how the guy who’d bought it for me deserved to be deep-throated, or bukkake-d, or some other equally random sexual experience that I’d have no goddamn idea how to fulfill… at least until they found out who he was.

My cell vibrates with a text message from my bedside table.

I hold the dress against my half-naked body as I circle the bed to pick it up.

Remy

We leave for an early dinner in an hour.

He doesn’t mention the dress. Just completely ignores yet another good deed.

I don’t get it.

Why does he do nice things and pretend they don’t exist?

I nibble my bottom lip, wanting to respond with gratitude. To tell him the dress is far too remarkable for someone who rarely steps foot in public. But all the gushing, grateful things I should say are smothered with the insurgent panic that I only have one hour to get myself into a state that will remotely do this phenomenal masterpiece justice.

So I drop my phone and flee to the bathroom, praying I don’t have a meltdown.

Fifty-five minutes later my nerves are still jangling as I grip the bedroom door handle, my confidence nonexistent as the perfectly fitted bodice clings to my naked breasts.

The whole gown feels entirely foreign.

But I’ve put in the work. I’ve styled my hair with two loose braids over the front of my head that join into a messy boho braid styled to sit across my left shoulder. My makeup is simplistic with mascara and a light smoky eyeshadow, one—because I didn’t bring my full makeup kit, but two—because I’m already nervous over the attention this dress will bring and don’t want to do anything that may increase it.

I’m such an imposter, especially after looking up the description of the Jimmy Choos from the product tag and finding out that they cost more than my monthly rent.

For almost an hour I’ve told myself I’m doing this for Dad… It’s only one night… A few hours max.

No matter what I tell myself, it doesn’t make it easier to twist the door handle and step into the hall, but I do it anyway, the bile in my stomach threatening to escape up my throat.

Chatter carries from the living room—my dad’s warm timbre, Lucy’s playful prattle.

But it’s Remy’s smooth, confident tone that tears strips from my already lacking composure.

I keep my head down as I reach the end of the hall and pause, dying a little inside when the house falls quiet.

I don’t need to glance up at them to determine they’re staring at me. My sixth sense of impending doom already tells me they are, along with Dad’s deeply indrawn breath.

I scrub my hands together, attempting to alleviate the palm sweat.

“Liv …” Dad murmurs, “you look …”

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