Because of the meeting with Rebecca, and then dropping the files in the elevator, we were already ten minutes late for dinner at my mom’s. You bet that had my anxiety ratcheting up.
Emily pulled her beat up little hatchback into the pristine driveway, parking beside Megan’s shiny white sedan. The contrast between the two vehicles was almost comical. Emily’s hatchback was covered in bumper stickers and mud, Megan’s car spotless and gleaming.
“Ready?” Emily turned to me, her expression unusually serious.
“As I’ll ever be.” I took a deep breath, reaching for the door handle.
“Hang on.” She grabbed my wrist. “Remember our code word if things get too intense.”
I nodded. “Cantaloupe.”
“The moment either of us says cantaloupe, we fake a work emergency and bail. No questions asked.”
“Yep.”
We walked up the manicured path to the front door, our steps slowing in unison as we approached. The door swung open before we could ring the bell, revealing my mom in a perfectly pressed cream blouse and tailored slacks, not a single gray hair visible in her expertly colored brown bob.
“There you are!” She air-kissed first Emily’s cheek, then mine. “We were about to start without you.”
I felt the familiar tightening in my chest as we stepped inside. The house smelled of lemon polish and whatever herb-crusted thing was cooking in the oven. The portrait of Megan’s high school graduation still held the place of honor on the mantle. My own graduation photo was tucked on a side table, partially obscured by a vase of fresh flowers.
“Sorry we’re late.” I slipped off my shoes and placed them neatly by the door. “Work ran long.” The image of Jack, placing my box of files in my trunk, flashed in my mind. The way he carried it so easily…
“Of course it did.” Mom’s tone managed to imply that this was both a poor excuse and somehow my fault. “Megan’s already shown me the most darling dress options. Come see.”
Emily shot me a look that said, “Here we go,” as we followed Mom into the dining room. The large table was covered withbridal magazines, fabric swatches, and a bottle of white wine that was already half empty.
Megan sat at the table’s head, her silky dark hair cascading over her shoulders, a glass of wine in one manicured hand. She looked up as we entered, her smile tight.
“Finally.” Her tone was a perfect mirror of my mom’s. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten.”
“How could we forget?” Emily’s voice was honey-sweet with practiced insincerity. “You’ve only texted us about it sixteen times in the last two days.”
My aunt Monica, Emily’s mom, emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of appetizers.
Where my mother was all sharp angles and tailored precision, Aunt Monica was that on steroids.
“Emily!” She set down the tray and frowned at her daughter. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
I glanced at Emily’s outfit—black jeans and a flowy emerald blouse that made her brown eyes pop. She looked gorgeous, as always.
“Yes, Mom, this is what I’m wearing.” Emily reached for a stuffed mushroom. “Did you expect me to show up in a ball gown for a Wednesday night dinner?”
“A nice dress wouldn’t kill you,” Aunt Monica muttered. Her gaze shifted to me, eyes dropping briefly to take in my outfit before offering a tight smile. “Mia. That’s a nice color on you. Very slimming.”
And there it was. Less than two minutes in and the first appearance of the word “slimming.” I caught Emily’s eye, and she gave an almost imperceptible head shake. Too soon for cantaloupe. Not yet. Fuck.
“Thanks, Aunt Monica.” I moved to the table, taking the seat next to Megan. “So, show me these dress options.”
She lit up, pushing a glossy magazine toward me. “I’m thinking of a spring garden theme. Light pastels. What do you think of this silhouette for the bridesmaids?”
I checked out the photo, which showed a willowy model in a skin-tight sheath dress with a mermaid flare at the bottom. My heart sank. The dress would look amazing on Emily. On me, it would be a disaster.
“It’s beautiful,” I said carefully. “But maybe not the most flattering cut for all body types.”
Megan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“She means she’s worried about looking fat in it,” my mother said bluntly, pouring herself more wine. “She got her father’s genes, after all. Isn’t that right, Mia?”
