Page 26 of It's Complicated

“Your words, not mine! No, seriously, how are they together?”

“Eh…”

Eh? What does she mean, eh?

I get my answer pronto.

“The relationship is supposedly new. Anyway, we went out last night, and Lori seemed a bit on the stiff side.”

“Stiff how?”

“She sort of jumped like a bunny whenever Jace touched her, and they didn’t kiss once.”

“Oh, you think she’s one of those sexually impaired women?”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“Am not. You said she couldn’t stand to be touched.”

“I only said she seemed a little skittish. But we were in a bar for less than an hour. Maybe they argued before. But tonightwe’ll be together for an entire dinner so I’ll know more by tomorrow.”

“Please report first thing in the morning.”

“Why the sudden interest?”

“Human cases fascinate me.”

A beat of silence follows, in which I assume Kirsten must make a face. Then she says, “Enough gossip, get out of that dress before you stain it with champagne.”

“You’re the one to talk, still wearing your wedding gown.”

“Then we don’t need to be the Pot and Kettle sisters. I’ll go get changed, too.”

In the silence that follows, I take out my phone and shoot a couple of venting texts to Jace.

He doesn’t respond. So I send another one:

To Jace:

I can’t believe it, not two days of fake dating and you’re already ghosting me

I have to put the phone away when the seamstress arrives. Despite my protests, she has me standing on a pedestal while she pulls the waist of the dress in by half an inch and the bust area by a lot more inches—not everyone was blessed with Kirsten’s or Kendall’s generous cleavages.

Once the bodice is taken care of, the seamstress moves on to the skirt. She pricks my hip with a needle, but I don’t say anything. I hate any form of confrontation with strangers. I’m the best customer you’ll ever have. My motto is “the seller is always right.” And I don’t know if it is for the fact that I didn’t manage to speak normally until I was ten. But I’ve never been able to stand up for myself. Also, I hate being put on the spot, and loathe even more doing it to others.

But when the seamstress accidentally pricks me a little harder, I involuntarily jerk my hips away.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey, did I stab you with my needle?”

“It’s nothing,” I deflect.

“I’ll be more careful, but please let me know if I do it again by accident.”

There’d be a better chance of me passing from the blood loss of a thousand pricks before I’d say anything.

Thankfully there are no more unintentional stabbings and, after what feels like forever, she announces I’m free to change if I want to.

As I return to the fitting room, my fingers are reluctant to pull down the zipper. Instead, I lift my hair and turn sideways to see the rear of the dress.

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