Page 62 of One More Made Up Love Song
“Nothing is stupid,” I say. “Just tell me.”
She folds her arms across her chest. Standing like this, she looks small, fragile, and I have a sudden impulse to pull her into an embrace.
Finally, she lets out a shaky breath. “The last formal dress I put on was for my junior prom,” she says. “It was the night Daphne died.”
Understanding floods my brain. Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t piece things together before now.
I swear softly, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, Ivy. I should have realized.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says. “I realize it’s a weird hang-up. That at some point, I will have to get over myself and figure this out. But I think I convinced myself that dressing up, going somewhere fancy, it wouldn’t be fair, you know? Because Daphne can never get dressed up again.”
“I don’t think that’s weird at all,” I say gently. “But I also don’t think it’s true. I think your sister would want you to go wherever you want, wearing whatever you want.”
She drops onto the armrest of the closest recliner and lifts her hands to her cheeks. “I’ve tried to tell myself as much. That if Daphne were here, she would scold me for being ridiculous, remind me to make sure my curls are fabulous, then send me on my way. My brain gets it. But whenever I think about actually doing it, I feel like my heart is breaking all over again.” She lifts her hands to her hair, pulling it up and off her neck for a moment before letting it fall back into place again. “But at some point, I’m not going to have a choice, right? I’m going to have to get over this. Carina will get married eventually, and she will not let me wear denim to her wedding.”
“What if you get marriedbeforeCarina?” I ask. “Will you wear denim to your own wedding?” The image of Ivy in a wedding dress floats through my mind, her big brown eyes bright as she smiles up at…someone.Not me, necessarily. The groom in my hazy imaginings is faceless. But there is nothing hazy about the discomfort that pricks the back of my heart when I think of some faceless man standing across from Ivy on her wedding day.
It’s jealousy, sharp and cutting.
I haven’t made a lot of sense out of what’s happening inside my heart right now. But I at least know this much. I don’t want to lose her to someone else.
Ivy breathes out a sigh. “I really need to figure this out, don’t I?”
I sit down opposite her and push my hands into my knees. “Probably. But that doesn’t mean you have to do itnow,at a movie premiere where you’re also pretending todate me. Kat’s press release, the social media, the public relations stuff, it’s just noise. It’s not more important than you. It’s not more important than how you feel.”
“I know,” she says. “But honestly, it might actually be better this way. If I have something else to focus on, maybe the dress won’t feel like a big deal.”
“Okay,” I say. “Then we do this together.”
She still doesn’t look convinced. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she says. “How to pick out a dress. How to fix my hair. Any of it.”
“I’ll help with that part. Natasha is always talking about how she’d love to get her hands on you. I’ll have her come to the house. Bring over a thousand dresses for you to try. Then we’ll pick one out together. Honestly, you’ll make my stylist’s year if you let her help.”
She rolls her eyes the slightest bit. “You’d help me pick out a dress? That feels…”
“Like something I would love to do,” I say. “Unless you don’t want me to.”
Tears fill her eyes. “You’re being very sweet about this. Especially when it feels like such a stupid thing.”
“It’s not a stupid thing. You lost your sister. It’s okay that this feels like a big deal.”
She’s quiet for a long moment before she asks, “If I freak out, can we leave?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I’ll fake an illness. Claim I’ve got crippling diarrhea. Whatever it takes.”
She huffs out a laugh as she wipes her eyes. “Please don’t fake diarrhea.”
I grin. “Why not? It works better than anything else. Nobody wants to get in the way of exploding bowels.”
“Freddie, stop it,” she says, but she’s still laughing, so Idon’t care. “I don’t think it’ll come to faking diarrhea. But knowing we can sneak out early would be helpful.”
“Done. We’ll come up with another sign. One tug on your earlobe, and you’re getting a kiss. Two, and we’re making a run for the bathroom.”
She shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re smiling, so…mission accomplished.”
She stands and holds out her hands, and I let her pull me to my feet. “A tug on the earlobe means we should kiss,” she says. “And if I squeeze your elbow like this—” She reaches up and grips my elbow, right below my bicep. “Then you know I’d like to go.”
