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“You need to get the idiots to cool down,” he says. “I could do this all day.”

“You’re a real wordsmith.”

“How’s this one?” he says. “I didn’t want to say itover the phone, but since you’re going to see me next at the office, I figure it’s better tonight than tomorrow.”

“Wait, why will I see you at the office?”

“Aren’t you coming in with your bridesmaid’s dress tomorrow?”

I’d forgotten that he would be my wedding date—in my brain, that was off. “My grandfather will be at the wedding,” I say. “I’m not sure whether it’s a great plan to egg him on. Maybe we lie low for a bit, not breaking up, but not flaunting it, and then?—”

“I can’t wait to see him. Did you know that he might be a senator soon?”

“I’ve heard,” I say. “Yes.”

“Well, I think it’s great. And I’m delighted to see him again on Sunday.”

“Are you?” He must be deranged. Or he’s kidding.

“Honestly, I love you so much, I don’t care who else is there as long as you are.”

I nearly drop the phone. “You—that’s what you didn’t want to say at work tomorrow?”

“I told your grandfather that I adored you, and it felt wrong. I mean, Idoadore you, but I felt like it just wasn’t enough. I needed a stronger word, and that’s when I realized why adore wasn’t the right word. I’ve never told any woman, other than my mom and my sister, that I love them. Until right now.” He pauses.

I have no idea what to say.

Clearly he’s not similarly afflicted. “Beatrice Cipriani, I love you.”

I should say it back. I know that. It’s the etiquette, but I can’t help thinking that he might be making a mistake. We really should be breaking up, not professing our love. And if he realizes, soon probably, that the priceof dating me is too high. . .it’ll hurt more if I’ve admitted that I love him.

So I just say, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Easton.”

“That you will.”

And then I hang up.

20

BEA

After telling me he loves me, I don’t hear from Easton for an entire day. When I go by his office, he’s not even there. His assistant says he’s meeting with lawyers, which sounds ominous, but when you do what he does, it’s probably just a typical day.

And it’s fine.

I’m busy, too.

His people really do get my dress altered—while I wait. It’s insane. This one woman does 90% of it in front of me, with this sewing machine that whizzes and whirs. By the time they’re done, they’ve taken the deep ochre dress, turned the excess hem into a sash around the waist, and shortened the bodice so that it hits me just above my waist instead of below.

The buttons that were straight up the middle are now offset, and the skirt is asymmetrical in a way that makes me look like a Barbie doll. I would be majorly stressing, but Barbara got us all different styles from the same line, with colors that coordinate on some palette she chose with her wedding planner.

“You’re a wizard,” I tell the woman. “Thank you.”

“I was excited when I thought they were adding a women’s line,” she says. “I’m better with women’s clothing. More scope.”

“Maybe they’ll add one yet,” I say.

She shrugs, not getting too excited, clearly.

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