Page 56 of Dating Goals
The line goes dead before I can protest further. I toss my phone onto the rejected dress pile.
“Who was that,Schätzli?”
I bolt upright to find my mother leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smile playing on her lips. Her silver-blonde hair is twisted into a messy bun with what appears to be a paintbrush stuck through it. There’s a smudge of yellow paint on her cheek that matches her flowing tunic.
“Just Ivy,” I mutter, hastily shoving dresses back into the closet. “Pregnancy has made her extra bossy.”
“And why are you destroying my closet?” She gestures to the fabric explosion with amusement. “Planning a fashion show?”
“I need a dress for…an event.”
“With that handsome hockey player?” Her eyes light up like Christmas came early. “The one who brought flowers?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Of course it is!” She claps her hands together. “Finally! My daughter is going on a date!”
I don’t correct her. Explaining that Griffin is just my dating coach would require admitting I’ve never been on a real date at twenty-five, which feels more pathetic than letting her believe this lie.
“It’s a black-tie thing,” I mumble. “Nothing in your closet works unless I’m attending as the entertainment.”
“So don’t go.” She shrugs, picking up a paisley kimono and holding it lovingly. “Stay home. Work at the pub. Die alone surrounded by beer taps and drunk locals.”
“Mutter!”
“What? I’m just saying what will happen if you keep finding excuses.” She tosses the dress aside. “I’ll cover the pub. You’ve hardly taken a night off in three years.”
Except for the Visp game, she’s right.
I chew my lip. “I don’t know…”
“If you don’t go out with that delicious hockey player,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “I will rearrange your vinyl collection by color instead of alphabetically.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” She crosses her arms, smiling sweetly. “And I’ll switch all your Smiths records with my Yanni collection.”
Now that’s just evil.
She dances around the room humming a Yanni song.
“I don’t have anything to wear anyway,” I say with resignation. “So there’s no use talking about it.”
She twirls mid-dance to face me. “Maybe we can ask around the village? See if anyone has something you could borrow?”
I nearly choke. “Absolutely not. I’d rather wear this…thing.”
“What about Frau Heller?” she suggests, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “She has that fancy dress she wore to her grandson’s wedding.”
“Mutter!” My face burns. “I am not going door-to-door begging for dresses!”
The mental image alone makes me want to crawl under my bed and hibernate until spring. The village gossip mill would churn out engagement rumors before I even made it home with a borrowed gown.
My mother waves dismissively. “Pride won’t keep you warm at night,Schätzli.”
I’m contemplating whether I could fashion something presentable from the pub’s curtains—they’re burgundy velvet, very Maria von Trapp—when the doorbell’s cheerful ring interrupts my fashion crisis. My mother practically skips to answer it, leaving me alone with the pile of colorful thrift store rejects. I hold the brown dress against me one more time, wondering if I could somehow transform it into something that doesn’t scream “I make my own granola.”
“Maybe if I cut off the sleeves and hem it above the knee…” I mutter, turning sideways. “And add a belt? And completely change the fabric, color, and design?”
