Jules

I step out of the dressing room, careful to pick up the long skirt so I don’t trip on it. It’s about two inches too long but I figure with high heels, it would be the perfect length.

I think.

Not really sure.

Last time I wore a formal gown was for my senior prom. It wasn’t the magical, romantic evening most senior high school girls dream of spending with their honeys. I went with a good friend of mine, Johnny Davidson. Neither of us were dating anyone at the time so it seemed like a good idea. There was nothing memorable about that night to me and the memories are dull because of that. I do remember Johnny lighting a joint as we sat in the backseat of his best friend’s car, who was driving, with his date riding shotgun. When he passed it to me, I shook my head to decline, and before he could pull it back across the seat, a single ember broke free and dropped down onto my gold lamé dress, which promptly melted a hole in it the size of a dime.

Good times.

I exit the dressing room looking for Sutton. I had asked her to come shopping with me because I had no clue what one wore to a celebrity charity gala for I had never been to a gala, much less a charity one, much much less one that would be swarming with celebrities.

I look down at the silvery-blue dress that is strapless with the top done in satin, with a shimmery tulle overlay and the skirt nothing but several layers of the same shimmery tulle extending full length to the ground so it puffs out just a bit. When I turn back and forth, it swishes prettily and I feel totally fucking awkward in it.

“Oh my God, Jules,” I hear Sutton as she walks back into the dressing area, another gown draped over her arm done in a cranberry red. She looks me up and down, her eyes wide with appreciation. “That’s the one.”

“Really?” I ask with a healthy dose of skepticism. I haven’t had a single “aha” moment with the dresses I’ve tried on so far, but the choices haven’t been that great. I’m working on a very limited budget so I only picked from the sales rack.

“Trust me,” she says with a firm nod to her head. “That is totally the one. I’m not even going to let you try this one on.”

I look back down at the dress and reluctantly admit it’s probably my favorite. The color looks really good on me, I suppose. And it’s definitely affordable.

Looking back up at Sutton, I say, “All right. This is the one.”

“Perfect.” She beams at me and then pushes past to the dressing stall I was in and grabs the five dresses I’d already tried on. “I’ll just go hang these back up and then I’ll go start scoping the perfect pair of heels to go with that. Come meet me in the shoe section when you’re done.”

“Okay,” I say halfheartedly, because honestly . . . I hate shopping. It’s never been something I’d been keen on, probably because I’ve always kind of known what I wanted, so browsing racks of clothes never did anything for me but waste time. I was more of an online shopper for the convenience, but I couldn’t do that for a formal gown. It was important to nail the fit as time was ticking down. I was a week and a half away from the gala that Max had invited me to weeks ago.

Back then I’d promptly agreed because things were new and exciting.

Since then I’ve not been as eager, and I think I put off shopping for a dress because the excitement had all but dried up.

That, of course, had mostly to do with that article written about me, which I see still continues to circulate around social media, particularly after Max has a game. I know I shouldn’t torture myself by reading that stuff but I can’t help it. I’m like the proverbial kid who will put her hand to a hot stove even though her mom told her it would burn and hurt.

After I get the dress off, back on the hanger, and I redressed in my clothes, I step out of the dressing room. My head is down as I take one more look at the sales price tag to make sure it really is in my price range, and run into another person.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I stumble, correct myself and look up. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

A young woman stands there—maybe my age—her arms crossed over her chest and looking at me with absolute disgust on her face. Another woman—about the same age—stands just behind her, not quite as much disgust on her face but her nose is slightly wrinkled.

“Sorry,” I mumble again.

“You’re totally not good enough for Max,” the first woman says prissily.

I blink at her, stunned beyond words. All I can say is, “Excuse me?”

She repeats it slowly, her words sharper. “You’re. Not. Good. Enough. For. Max.”

My mind swims, trying to figure out who this woman is. A former girlfriend who wants him back?

“I’m sorry,” I say as I tilt my chin up at her. “But who are you and how do you know Max?”

She rolls her eyes at me and says, “I don’t know him personally. But I am a Cold Fury fan and he’s my favorite player. I read that article about you, and he doesn’t need someone in his life trying to take advantage of him. It will totally mess up his game and his fans don’t want his heart broken when your true nature comes out.”

I drop my face, look down to the gown in my hand and mumble to myself under my breath, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Taking a deep breath, I lift my gaze back up to her and paint on the brightest smile I can muster. It’s completely fake and my cheeks immediately strain trying to hold it. “Well, I respect your opinion on that but will have to disagree. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be going.”

As I push past her and the other woman, she gets her last dig in by muttering “Gold digger” as I walk away.

I exit the dressing area and turn to the rack just outside that holds an array of shirts and blouses. Not caring that the dress doesn’t belong there, I shove it in until the hooked end of the hanger catches on the bar and walk away.

A slight sting in my nose alerts me to impending tears, so I take in a few harsh breaths and try to conjure up images of puppies and babies, two things guaranteed to brighten any day. It doesn’t work on my current mood but it at least averts a full-fledged crying jag.

I quickly locate the shoe section and Sutton sees me coming. She holds up a pair of silver high-heeled sandals and beams at me. “These will be perfect with that dress.”