Page 11 of Plays Well With Others

There is one rule for what to wear at your divorce party—something smoking hot. I took care of an outfit for you, you beautiful single goddess, you.

Juliet must have used her code to come inside and leave this for tonight. Sister’s rights and all, to burst in and leave gifts.

And it’s not just any dress.

It’s a ruby red, sparkly, sequined body-con dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.

This looks like what a teenager would wear to a fuck-me-at-homecoming dance. But I don’t have a teenage-girl body. I flick the card against my palm as I consider the outfit. Then I spot my sister’s P.S. on the other side of the card—Body-con dresses aren’t just for the teens. Women in their thirties with women’s bodies can wear them and slay them.

She can read my mind. She’s always been able to. I run my fingers along the sequined look-at-me dress. “I am not worthy,” I confess to the dress. “I was a supreme asshole today.”

I go on, telling the dress everything, every terrible detail, until they’re all out of me.

And you know what? After what I’ve been through, the fact I didn’t try to garrote him with a necklace is absolutely miraculous.

Iamworthy of this dress.

First, though, I’ve got to ditch the bra. I free the girls, then slingshot the black lace across the bedroom. It lands on a lamp, and that feels like a statement—the statement isI can wear whatever I want. Commando up top? Hell, yeah.

I tug on the dress, pulling up the spaghetti straps. The neckline plunges deeply.

And…hello! Is there a breeze down there?

I peer at the hem. Hmm. Do we call this mid-thigh length or butt-cheek length?

I shrug. Whatever.

I head to the mirror and…whoa. Is that me in this tiny thing? I’d never have worn this with Edward. He likes his ladies classy. He likes his women subtle. I am not subtle tonight. I am a billboard for Fun with a capital F.

I take out the earbuds and set them down on the bureau.

“Fuck him,” I say to my reflection, then I do my makeup, slip on some heels, and grab a purse and the lemon cheesecake blueberry bars.

Carter calls me at eight-thirty-five, five minutes after he said he’d arrive, but exactly when I figured I’d see him—Carter time. “On my way,” I say, then head down the steps of my townhome and swing open the front door. I’m so damn ready for this party.

Carter’s standing on the stoop, wearing dark jeans and an untucked slate-blue button-down that is form-fitting in all the right ways. It hugs his big biceps and snuggles against his strong chest. Bonus—with the cuffs rolled up, it shows off his forearms. In short, the shirt makes my handsome friend look even more handsome.

He’s just a good-looking guy, empirically and all.

“Hey, you,” I say.

“Hey,” he says, but it comes out strangled, like all the air has left his lungs.

“You okay?”

He clears his throat, blinks, then he manages a nod that looks a little uncomfortable. “You look…wow.”

“Aww. That’s sweet.” I lean in and kiss his cheek, taking that wow. Needing that wow.

When I let go, his eyes linger on me a little longer than usual. Well, he’s not used to seeing me in sparkles, so it makes sense that he’d want to make sure it’s really me under all this bling.

“It’s sparkly, isn’t it?” I say with a jut of my hip.

“Yes, just a little,” he grunts, then reaches for the plate of bars. He takes them as I hook my arm through his on the other side.

“Let me tell you what I said to a customer tonight.”

As we walk to his car, I tell him what I said so I can put my bad behavior behind me.

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