Page 6 of Hold Me Today

“Eep, don’t let go!” Toula cries out.

With nimble hands, I grab the dress before any bits of tulle can take a dip in the toilet water. A relieved sigh stabs me in the chest when I catch it all. No doubt I look like Easter threw up all over me—so much tulle, so much lace. All I need are the bunny ears and a carrot. “All right, you’re good. Go forth with the mission.”

“I can’t tell if I’m over the toilet.”

Oh, for the love of—

I yank the dress skirt higher, out of the way of impending disaster. “Squat and pray. Just squat and pray.”

And please don’t pee on my shoes.

Toula screws her eyes shut, her mouth pursing in overt concentration. Good Lord, she might actually be praying. Laughter climbs my throat, just as the trickling, telltale sound of urine hitting water echoes in the linoleum-covered bathroom.

Effie’s cousin drops her head back, moaning with pure, unfiltered relief.

“Didn’t the bridal shop prepare you for this?” I ask, stepping to the side when Toula gives her butt a firm wiggle. If I even dare try to give her some toilet paper, I’ll probably lose my hand in the countless layers of fabric. Instead of opting for a sleek, modern cut, she’s gone for Cinderella-impersonator, tiara included. Family friend or not, she’s on her own from here on out. Mark my words, my duties are hereaftercomplete.

I’m in desperate need of a cocktail.

And then, if I’m lucky enough, Nick Stamos will appear like the white knight he isn’t, and I’ll have the chance to plead my case. I’m already dreading the moment when his pewter-gray eyes land on me, shrewdly giving me a once-over that has always—always—left me feeling lacking. Wanting. Like I’m forever disappointing him, even though I don’t care one bit about what he thinks of me. I don’t careanymore, at any rate. I used to, back when I was a disillusioned youth.

If there was ever a chance of me knowing what exactly goes on behind those uniquely colored eyes of his, I’ve long since given up figuring it out. Nick’s as stone-cold as an ancient Greek statue. If there’s any luck in the world, he’s the opposite of an Adonis and has a dick small enough to fit behind the requisite leaf coverage.

You know that’s not even remotely true.

With an imaginary needle, I pop the veryvividmemory of a teenage Nick straight from my head.

At any rate, the likelihood of him agreeing to my proposition is close to nil, but I haven’t gotten this far in life by going belly-up and accepting fate’s bad hand.

Vini, vidi, vici,right?

I came, I saw, I conquered.

I’m working on the conquering bit, but I have no doubt that some magic can be spun to maneuver things into my favor. Not that Nick has ever allowed himself to be maneuvered into anything. Not that time when we were kids and I begged him to sneak Effie and me out of Greek school or that horribly awkward moment on prom night when I thought for one crazy second that he might actually—

Nope, don’t even go there.

I suck in my bottom lip and focus on the situation at hand.

“How about putting a warning label—No Solo Bathroom Trips—on the dress tag?” I tell Toula when she flushes the toilet. “Or, maybe, I don’t know, go eighteenth-century and cut a slit in your underwear for easy access?”

“Bad news, I’m not wearing any underwear.”

I’m not even surprised. When we were kids, Toula spent an entire summer stripping naked. She flashed everyone from the mailman to the family dog to unassuming passersby outside her front yard. When we turned eighteen, she opted out of college for a career in burlesque.

Unless it glitters and shimmers, Toula can’t be bothered.

As for me, I like clothes. Hell, Ilovethem. There isn’t a skirt I won’t wear or a top I won’t try at least once, but my love for clothes can’t compare to how much I obsess over getting my hands into someone’s hair. Un-creepily, of course.

“Let me make sure the bobby pins are holding up.” I motion to Toula after she’s washed her hands in the sink and I’ve done the same. “Once you’re announced into the reception, I’ll be lucky if I get another chance to fix you.”

Dutifully, Effie’s cousin drops her chin to let me survey my handiwork from earlier this morning. I’ve arranged her black hair—the same charcoal hue as mine now that I’ve removed my usual hot pink—in an elegant up-do with sweeps of locks here and loose braids strategically placed there. I straighten the bobby pins, sticking the butt of a pin between my molars while I tug and rewrap a braid. Once Toula hits the dance floor in an hour, I’ll let nature do as it wants but until then . . .

“You sure you don’t mind me posting the picture on Instagram?” I ask, slipping the pin from my mouth and into the thick, intricately styled bun at the nape of her neck. “I don’t want you to feel—”

Toula flashes me a quick grin. “I told you earlier, it’s all good. How else are you going to build clientele for your new salon?”

Not for the first time, I feel the sting of my current reality. It zaps me right in the heart before burrowing deep in my gut. It’d be all too easy to sink into the black blanket already clinging to my legs, all while subjugating myself to endless nights of Tito’s, cryfests, and more hours of reality TV than my brain can possibly digest. Crying isn’t a solution to my problem, though, and neither is alcohol.

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