Page 7 of For The Weekend
“It’s not so bad.” She puts away a pile of my underwear. “If only I could make myself tackle my own kids’ rooms.”
Speak of the devils. Shouts erupt from the living room. Sloane dropped off her two kids, Micah and Livie, this morning so she could run some errands.
“Thanks again for watching them,” she says. “Trevor’s schedule is…” She shakes her head, and I can see the exhaustion in the slope of her shoulders. Her husband is a big pharmaceutical rep and often travels, so running the household and taking care of their kids falls solely on Sloane’s shoulders.
“Anytime. You know I love hanging out with them.”
She brushes her hand over her forehead, pushing her long bangs back away from her face. “Yeah. Aunt Ellie’s their favorite.”
I curtsy and pretend to put on a crown, but Clara stops me from accepting the imaginary prize when she flaps her hand. “Stop moving around and go stand in front of the mirror again so I can pin it.”
She opens a bag she brought with her and begins to pinch and pull, pinning the material so she can tailor it. As she works, I stare at myself in the full-length mirror. Objectively, the satin is a nice color, but it’s simply notmine.
I need bright colors, light ones, and to say nothing of the shape. With the huge bow on the shoulder, it doesn’t fit right across my bust, so my armpit roll hangs over the arm hole. The skirt is straight down to the floor and makes me look like a paper bag.
I’ve always been tall, so I learned long ago how to search for clothes that would fit me well. And after I gained weight, I made sure to buy things that accentuated my figure. I can’t say I’m confident every day, all day, but I’m happy with the way I look.
This dress doesnotmake me happy.
With the wedding taking place in only a few weeks, I should have tried it on a while ago, but I’m great at avoidance. I’ve become what some might call an expert.
And there is nothing else I like to avoid more than my family.
Especially when it comes to Lily and the weird competition our mothers have entered us into. I lose every time.
At thirty years old, I should probably be used to it, but every condescending comment cuts like it’s the first time, and I’d rather ignore any and all of it than have to face it.
I can already imagine my mother’s reaction to how I’ll look in the dress and the underlying glee in my aunt’s face—or the ongoing put-downs about what I’m doing with my life or anymistake I’ve ever previously made. Especially when I show up without a date.
The horror.
Though I’m pulled from the start of an anxiety spiral by Clara’s gossip.
“Did you hear about Roman?”
Sloane stands to place my now-empty laundry basket in the corner of the room. “Roman Stone?”
Clara nods, but I shake my head. “Stone as in Ian, Griffin, and Taryn?”
“Their brother,” Clara says.
“Ian’s talked about him before,” Sloane adds.
The Stone siblings are well-known in town. Griffin is the fire captain, Taryn manages a popular bed-and-breakfast, and Ian owns the tattoo shop where Sloane works, which is conveniently situated right next door to my bakery. In our little downtown neighborhood, you can’t throw a stone without literally hitting a Stone or someone related to one.
While I grew up in West Chester, I’m too young to have gone to school with any of the siblings, but I’ve become friends with all of them the last few years. Except Roman. The youngest and most mysterious one. “What’s the story?”
“He’s home,” Clara informs me as she fusses with the bow at my shoulder. “Opened up an auto body shop on Union Street, so I’ve seen him around but haven’t officially met him. Taryn’s been sort of mum about it.”
“I think they’re all super protective of him,” Sloane says idly as she sorts through the jewelry left out on my dresser.
Taryn Stone’s best friend is Marianne, Clara’s wife, and with Sloane working with Ian, this gossip is coming almost straight from the source. While I don’t like to talk about people behind their backs, I am interested in learning more because rumors have always floated aroundabout him.
“So, what’s he like? As mean as they say?”
Sloane moves on to my nightstand, attempting to clear it of the tissues, pill bottles, lotions, 854 hair ties, two empty glasses stacked up, a pencil, and a broken PopSocket. “He doesn’t strike me as mean.”
Clara places another pin at the seam by my armpit. “Grumpy, though.”
