Completed short story. UNEDITED DRAFT. Content notes apply only to this part.
Stef
My hands tremble as I pull out the list again.
- Walk three blocks to Vivienne’s
- Find a new dress you like
- Buy it
- Walk back
- Call me if you need me
I’m in Vivienne’s, but my body is frozen in place. There are a lot of dresses in the store, most of them short-sleeved. The clerk is giving me strange looks. Three other women are browsing the store, talking loudly, and the sound of their voices instantly evokes anxiety in me.
Not that that’s anything new, but it seems worse because I’m out in public.
I fidget with my long sleeves, trying to pull out the courage Hunter seems to think I have, and fight not to pull out my phone. I know he has a long list of patients for the day, including a house call, and I don’t want to interrupt that.
And there’s the fact that I want to prove to him — and myself — that I can do this on my own.
I stop only a few steps in, though, halting when a saleswoman offers me a friendly smile. “Can I help you, Miss?”
Shit.
I should’ve expected someone to stop me to offer to help, but I’d hoped I could just keep my head down and get through this without too much attention. “I…” I falter, swallow hard, then try for confidence as I say, “I’m looking for a long-sleeved dress.”
It’s the wrong season for it, of course, but the saleswoman is professional enough not to remark on it.
People come here with serious money, after all, and she doesn’t want to compromise her commission.
“Sure,” she says, beckoning for me to follow her.
I do, trembling slightly, and she brings me to a rack toward the back of the store. I stare at it, looking at the different styles.
“We don’t have a better selection for winter dresses yet,” the saleswoman tells me. “But this is what we have. Is there something specific you have in mind? Color? Cut?”
The only thing I have in mind is wanting to get out of here, and panic threatens to overwhelm me. I want to run for the door and run the whole three blocks back home, but Hunter would be… not disappointed, exactly, but I don’t want to let him down.
The bell on the door jingles, and I’m aware of another person stepping into the store. My mouth dries and my body tenses as the newcomer steps right up to us.
“Hey, Stef,” a familiar, toneless voice says.
I turn to look at Mimosa, Drake’s… girlfriend? I don’t know why she’s here at first, but duh, it’s a dress shop and anyone can shop here. I also don’t know why she’d stop and say hello to me. I know that if Chase’s girlfriend May walked in, she’d ignore me completely and pretend not to know me.
Tears burn in my eyes at the thought. I’d messed up once, and now she completely hates me. It’s not fair.
Mimosa is different, though, and there’s no reason not to be polite.
“Hey,” I say, not sure whether to call her Mimosa or Mimi in public. I wonder what her other name is, her real name, and if she uses it.
“I saw you through the shop window,” she says, completely ignoring the saleswoman. “You’re dress shopping? Is that for the upcoming wedding, or…?”
The saleswoman looks between us, clearly trying to decide if she wants to interrupt. “I’ll leave you ladies to it. If you need help with something, my name is Anne, and I’ll be happy to help.”
“Thank you,” I tell her before shoring up my courage and looking back at Mimosa. “Yes, for Vanessa’s wedding. Hunter thought it would be good for me to—” I cut myself off, mortified. She doesn’t need to know that Hunter thinks I need to do things for myself. “Are you going?”
Mimosa shakes her head. “Drake was invited, but I’m not going anywhere near Giulio Pavone ever again.” She sneers, the first real expression I’ve seen her make. “I feel sorry for his wife.”
My heart aches at the thought of someone like Vanessa being stuck with Giulio forever. The girls at Ntimacy had wagered on how long it would last with Giulio’s mercurial nature and temper, but few of us had thought it would end up being this long-term. We’d thought he’d lose interest, but we’d been wrong. And now…
“Yeah,” I say softly. “She’s really nice.”
“I don’t think I ever met her,” Mimosa says, her voice bland again. She glances around the store. “What kind of dress are you looking for?”
I squirm when the attention returns to me. “I… Something long-sleeved,” I mumble. “I don’t like short sleeved dresses.” I tug hard on one of my sleeves again, as though I think it’s ridden up and will show Mimosa my scars. “Beyond that…” I offer her a tentative smile. “I just want to look pretty for Hunter.”
“Hunter thinks you look good in three straps tied around your breasts,” Mimosa says without any heat.
My cheeks flush red anyway.
She goes to the closest rack, where a strapless blue dress hangs. She pulls it off and holds it up to herself. “I’m cliche and like blue. If you don’t like the short sleeved options, you can accessorize with cardigans.”
I swallow hard, anxiety making my heart race. “I… would need to try them both on at the same time,” I say, knowing my voice is barely audible but unable to make it any louder.
“So do that.” Mimosa puts the blue dress over her arm and goes to another rack that has a nice purple dress. She holds it out to me like she’s estimating the sizes. “You’re a size 2, aren’t you?”
I fidget. No matter how hard I try, I can’t put on any weight. I feel like a twig next to Hunter — and to Mimosa, who actually has curves in the right places. No wonder someone like Drake Brutal wanted her. She’s so pretty.
I try to remind myself that Hunter wanted me, but it doesn’t help.
“Yes,” I finally say. There’s no sense in lying about it, even if the admission does make my voice shake a little.
Mimosa hands the dress to me, and I automatically take it. “I think a blue and an orange cardigan would both match. Or white. I’m sure they’ve got a few.” She goes straight up to the saleswoman and asks her about it, while I’m still stuck at my spot, clutching the dress.
I decide to go into one of the changing rooms with the dress, closing the door behind me and locking it as I shed my light long-sleeved shirt and jeans. I leave the bra I barely need on, and I pull on the dress. My shoulders slump as I stare at myself in the mirror. I look like I haven’t eaten in weeks, my scars are so blatantly visible, and if I look closely enough, I can still see the needle marks in the corners of my elbows.
I don’t know what Hunter sees in me.
A knock on the door startles me. “Stef? I have the cardigans.”
I don’t know what I’m thinking when I open the door just a slit. “You can hand them to me,” I say. Except the door has to open a little more than I thought it would when I take them, and I realize too late that she can see everything I’ve hidden from everyone but Hunter for so long.
I slam the door shut, so loud it probably alarms everyone in the area, and try to breathe. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I scramble with my purse, knocking it over and making the contents spill out everywhere. I don’t care. All I care about is getting my phone and jabbing my finger at the screen until I can call Hunter.
What if he doesn’t answer?
What if he’s not there to tell me what to do?
The door creaks open, and I stop, my phone still just out of reach. I look up as Mimosa closes the door behind her.
She puts the cardigans on the hook, then turns to the mirror. She doesn’t look at me, but I still feel the judgment in her gaze.
“I—I’m—” I say, but the words aren’t coming out right.
“Take a few deep breaths,” Mimosa says calmly. “Take one of the cardigans and put it on, if that’ll help.”
I hadn’t even noticed how quickly my chest was rising and falling, trying to draw in breaths but feeling as though I was failing miserably. I grab one of the cardigans and put it on, just as a strangled sob escapes me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She rolls her eyes in the mirror. “For what? Being a normal person?”
I bark out a laugh. “Me? Normal?” I hold up my arm, which is covered in cloth, but I can still see the scars imprinted in my memory. “Normal people don’t do this.”
Mimosa turns around and meets my eyes. “Normal people who go through the shit we went through do. Give yourself a break, Stef. Nobody out there—” she motions toward the store, “has had to deal with anything near as bad as we have.”
I shake my head. “But you…” I glance at her wrists, which are bare and unblemished. “You didn’t, you know.” I’m certain of it. Tears well up in my eyes and start to slowly fall. “You’re strong, so strong. Drake is… Drake is worse than Hunter could ever be. And you’re still here.”
Mimosa’s expression doesn’t change at all. “Drake is a complete mess with neuroses and mental health issues, but he’s working on himself. Hunter is a sociopathic control freak who is absolutely worse than Drake. But I’m not going to argue about that.” She lowers her gaze. “I’m not any stronger than you, Stef. I’ve gotten by by shutting out all emotions and repressing everything. People who used to know me call me unfeeling and cold, now.”
“They call me a crybaby,” I say, but I think I understand what she’s saying.
We’ve both been changed by our experiences, and neither of us came out unscathed.
“I guess I am,” I add, wiping at my tears. My shoulders slump. “I don’t want you to think I’m pathetic, or to hate me. I want… I want to be friends with you.”
“I don’t think any of those things about you,” Mimosa answers. She reaches out and awkwardly pats my shoulder. “We can be friends. I’d like that. But you’ll have to deal with me not reacting properly to things.”
I laugh, though it’s an unsteady, quiet thing. “And you’ll have to deal with me crying all the time. I have enough feelings for both of us.” I take in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I feel better with her at my side, somehow, and the desperate need to call Hunter has lessened. It’s still there, but it’s not as pressing.
Mimosa nods and withdraws her hand. “Okay. Now, as pretty as you are in your undies and the cardigan, you probably want to put on a real dress. Do you want me to stay here, or will you be okay if I wait outside?”
“You can wait outside,” I say, sniffling. “I’ll put the dress on.”
With another nod, she opens the door and steps out of the little changing room. I look back at myself in the mirror, wishing I could see myself as some sort of survivor like I think of Mimosa — and even May — as.
Maybe I am.
Maybe I’ll even be okay.
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