Page 43 of Sleepover

Chapter 19

Elle

Hattie meets me at the Lucerne Mall on Saturday morning. She’s wearing skinny jeans with a high waist, knee-high boots, and a cropped sweater that tapers to a wide band just above her waistline. Her black hair falls in glossy loose ringlets to her shoulders, and her makeup is impeccable.

Normally, I feel frumpy next to Hattie, who since her divorce has devoted an enormous amount of time to her appearance—Barrecore class, Pilates, regular cardio, time spent at Sephora and the Macy’s makeup counter, hair, clothes, full-body waxing, you name it, she has pursued it in the interest of getting laid and moving on. I’m more the Ben-and-Jerry’s-to-drown-your-sorrows type.

But today I’m feeling pretty darn good. I got up early enough to wash my hair and blow it dry, and I spent a long time doing my makeup and choosing my clothes.

I was thinking, Who knows when I might need to send a selfie to a certain shameless next-door neighbor?

“Wow,” says Hattie. “You look fabulous.”

“Thanks.”

“Your dirty games with the neighbor obviously agree with you.”

I’d told her the whole story, complete with Sawyer’s rescuing me and my wounded pride from the Helen-and-Trevor-show, his kiss, the wedding-day proposition, and a very short expurgated version of the unexpected “foreplay” a few days ago. Hattie, being Hattie, had withheld judgment. She was delighted to hear I had a date to the wedding, that I was getting some, and that Trevor wouldn’t “win.”

“No dirty texts since the last day of school.”

Which is fine. I’ve been checking my phone compulsively, of course, and have started flirty texts to Sawyer a few times, but I always delete them before sending. After what happened with Trevor—

I guess I want to be pursued, you know? I don’t want to be the pathetic one ever again.

“Let’s go make you irresistible,” Hattie says.

Hattie is a great shopping assistant. We gather a pile of dresses in Nordstrom and she sends me into the dressing room.

The first two I don’t even bother showing her. They’re not good for my petite frame. Then come a few I need her advice about. She gives me a head shake, then another, then a lukewarm, “I don’t hate that one…” Which makes us both laugh.

I’ve probably tried on ten dresses when I slip into one that unexpectedly makes me stop and catch my breath. I wouldn’t have picked it off the rack, but Hattie has a good eye. Dusty pink isn’t a color that looks good on most people, but this dress totally works for me. It falls to mid-calf, which is a length I usually loathe, but the tunic hemline is actually incredibly flattering. The sleeves are long, the cut simple and form-fitting with a choker neck, a low back, and a deep keyhole cutout that reveals a ton of cleavage without being cheap.

“Holy shit,” Hattie says.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say dryly.

“I’d fuck you,” she says.

I laugh. “Sorry, get in line.” I look back over my shoulder at my reflection in the mirror. “Should I take a picture and send it to Sawyer?”

She shakes her head. “No. You need to see his face the first time he sees you in that dress. But you should text him.”

I hesitate a moment, but what the fuck.

Just bought a dress for the wedding.

I pocket my phone before I can get sucked into watching for those three little dots to form…

The shoe department is next, where with Hattie’s help, I find a pair of dusty-pink peep-toe kitten-heel sandals with three thin ankle straps. They make my legs look like I’ve been working out, and I can’t stop admiring my calves in the mirror. It’s been years since I wore heels.

“I don’t get out enough,” I tell Hattie.

“No, you don’t.”

“It’s a good thing Sawyer doesn’t want a relationship. I can practice on him and it won’t matter that I’m rusty and lame.”

“You’re not rusty and lame,” Hattie says.

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