Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
On top of everything else, with Margaux’s pregnancy, it’s more important than ever that she lands this promotion—though how she’ll weave that into all this remains to be seen. Perhaps it would be an understandable excuse for her to cut things off with Roman when the time comes? Though that’s for her to worry about, not me.
Until then, here we are.
“Thought I’d change it up a little,” I add. The last two times we’ve hung out, I felt like I spent more time tugging and pulling my uncomfortable outfits into place than anything else.
“Hm.” Margaux studies me with a critical eye.
Rather than raid my sister’s closet, I opted for a few of my own pieces—black pants, a cream sleeveless blouse, and a pair of fuchsia-colored enamel earrings I purchased two years ago at the MoMA gift shop. Classic with a punch of pink for some feminine flair à la Margaux.
“No.” Margaux rises from her bed and heads straight for her closet. A minute later, she retrieves a floral sundress and a pair of nude pumps. “It’s a summer Friday in June, and he’s taking you to Fiorucci’s in Chelsea. You should dress like it.”
I don’t know what any of those things have to do with a floral dress, and I’ve never even heard of that restaurant, but she’s the one calling the shots with this entire situation she’s orchestrated, so I’ll wear the damn outfit.
“You look like you’re about to attend an art exhibit,” she says like it’s a bad thing.
Unbuttoning my blouse, I shrug it off my shoulders before draping it over the foot of her bed along with my pants. A minute later, I’m slipping her dress over my body and tugging it into place. It’s a little snug in the waist and bust, but the forgiving A-line cut makes up for it. Our entire lives, I’ve always been a half of a dress size bigger than her. Sometimes a full size, depending on the brand. I’ve always chalked it up to the fact that Margaux doesn’t sit still for two minutes most days, whereas I have the art of relaxation down to a science. My body shape is . . . softer . . . than hers, if only a smidge.
“Much better,” she says with a proud sigh, clasping her hands together. “Will you let me curl your hair tonight?”
“No,” I say.
“Then at least wear this.” Grabbing an oversize headband from the top of her dresser, she places it on me, pulling pieces of hair out from behind my ears so they frame my face.
I turn to check my reflection in her mirror, and it takes everything I have not to burst into laughter at the sight of myself.
“This headband is gigantic,” I say. “I feel like I’m wearing a crown or fascinator or something. I look like the Designer Imposter version of you. Designer Imposter Margaux.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She plucks at and fusses with my hair some more, adjusting the headband just so. “It completes the ensemble. And you look stunning.”
“I look like you.”
“That’s the whole point.”
“Yeah, but . . .” I let my thoughts fade. She’s right. I can’t argue that fact. I’m not sure where I was going with that, but she pays it no mind.
“Isn’t he going to be here any minute?”
I check my watch before sliding my feet into the skyscraper-height red-soled pumps she set out for me.
“If I break my ankle tonight, it’s on you,” I tell her.
“You act like you’ve never worn six-inch heels before . . .” Margaux rolls her eyes as she snickers. I’m glad she finds this amusing. “Just remember to walk heel to toe and slow. That’s the secret. Mom taught us that, remember?”
I meet her reflection in the mirror.
“Speaking of Mom,” I say. “You still haven’t told her about the pregnancy . . .”
“I know, I know.” Margaux waves her manicured hands. “I’m still figuring things out.”
“You can’t wait forever.”
“Well aware,” she says. “I’m reminded of it every time I try to put on a pair of pants. It’s like everything’s getting tighter by the hour. Nothing fits anymore, and I’m barely even showing . . . at this rate, I’ll be the size of a house by the end of next month.”
“That should be the least of your concerns right now.”
Margaux starts to reply, until the ring of my phone cuts her off.
“It’s Roman,” I say after checking the screen. “He must be downstairs.”
I take a deep breath.
She takes a deep breath.
“Remember,” she says, placing her hands on my shoulders, “to be uninteresting.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I grab my clutch and phone and head outside, where Roman’s leaning against his shiny black Escalade with a half-cocked smile on his face.
Like a moment out of a movie, my heart skips a beat, and everything feels electric and live wire—much like the way I felt when he asked me on this date a couple of days ago. While I wanted to scream “yes” from the top of my lungs, I had to give him an apprehensive maybe. I needed to consult with Margaux first. This is her project. This is all her doing.