She sighed loudly.
“Never mind, I’ll figure it out,” I said as I stuck it back in the closet.
“Are you nervous?”
“Yes. I mean, Theo’s nice enough, and maybe we’ll have a good time, but I’m a little worried about the whole fooling people into thinking he’s my boyfriend thing. I’m not the actress in the family. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
Jaime laughed. “I know. I was thinking earlier that in the twenty years I’ve known you, I think this is the craziest thing you’ve ever done.”
That actually made me smile.
* * *
Friday arrived, and I still didn’t know what to wear.
After school that day, I stood in front of my closet again and debated trying to look a little sexy, but bold lips and a bold outfit seemed like too much, and I was nervous enough without adding to it with an uncomfortably tight or low-cut dress. One thing at a time—the lips would be my statement tonight.
I decided to ignore Jaime’s advice and wear the Wedding Dress. Maybe it was a little plain, but it looked good on me. I slipped the soft, loose dress over my head, and since it was cold outside, paired it with black tights and low-heeled booties. Cute, right? Pleased with my choices, I applied the red lipstick and assessed myself in the mirror. “On a scale of one to ten, you are at least an eight and a half,” I told myself. “You might not be a bombshell, but you are definitely a bullet, possibly even a small grenade.”
Blowing myself a little air kiss in the glass, I bounced down the stairs and out the door.
* * *
I attended the six P.M. ceremony by myself, since I couldn’t afford to rent Theo for more than a few hours. After it was over, at least five people asked my where my mystery man was, their expressions ranging from curious to skeptical. “He couldn’t get off work early enough to make the ceremony,” I said, delighted with how easily the lie rolled off my tongue. The lipstick was working! My ears barely even tingled. “He’ll be at the reception, though.”
Back at home, I had only about fifteen minutes before Theo was scheduled to pick me up, and I spent it staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, applying another coat of Audacious, and practicing Giselle’s selfie pout. After a few tries, I thought I had it down.
When the doorbell rang, butterflies took flight in my belly, which annoyed me. This wasn’t a date—it was a business transaction, just like Theo said.
But just in case the second coat of blaring red lipstick was too much, I blotted some off.
He rang the bell again, and I tossed the kiss-marked tissue in the trash can. “Coming, coming!” I yelled as I rushed to the door. Then I pulled it open, and my jaw dropped.
Theo looked gorgeous. Gorgeous. My heart beat a little faster as I took him in, head to heel. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and deep red tie. His dark hair was neatly combed, his scruff groomed, his shoes polished. And he was so tall—the top of my head barely reached his chin, even with shoes on. I’d have to stand on tiptoe to kiss him.
As soon as I thought it, I shoved the image out of my head. He’s not going to kiss you, dummy.
“Come on in,” I said, stepping back so he could get out of the cold. He wasn’t even wearing a coat. “I’m just about ready.”
“OK. No rush. I’m a few minutes early, anyway.” He entered the living room and looked around as I shut the door. “This is nice.”
“Thanks. It needs work, but I love it.”
“What’s this style of architecture called again?”
“It’s a Craftsman-style bungalow. At least, that’s what the agent called it when she was trying to sell me on the place.”
“How long have you lived here?” He admired my Christmas tree in the front window before peering into the dining room. I still didn’t have a table and chairs in there.
“Just a few months. I bought it over the summer, and I’m refurbishing it, one room at a time. But it’s just me doing the work, so it’s a slow process.”
Theo moved toward the fireplace and studied the painting above it, a watercolor I’d done of cherry trees in bloom near my family’s cabin up north. That squirmy, nervous feeling I always had when people looked at my artwork wormed its way into my stomach, and I halfway hoped he wouldn’t notice my signature at the bottom. But he did.
“Did you paint this?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell from his voice if he thought it was good or not. “Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The nervous feeling eased up, and a little pride warmed my insides. “Thanks.”
He glanced around at the walls and on the built-in shelves, which held photographs of family and friends along with smaller paintings, sketches, and projects I’d done. “You did all these?”
“Yes.”
“What’s this?” He picked up a piece I’d recently finished, an old hardcover copy of a book of fairy tales, the pages of which I’d carved into an ornate tower like Rapunzel might have lived in and painted with watercolors.
“I call it an altered book.”
“Amazing.” He set it down and picked up another one. “Do you always do fairy tales?”
“No, but I’m inspired by them a lot. The romance, the history, the symbolism. I like mythology and poetry too.” Walking over to the shelves where he stood, I pulled out one of my favorites, a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets into which I’d carved and painted a heart.