Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305)

by Topper, Jessica

  He kissed my shoulder, sobering up for a moment. “Ah, Laney, I wish . . .” As great as that sounded, I think he and I both knew what the answer was.

  “Yeah, I guess there isn’t room on the Excel itinerary for me,” I joked, trying to keep my voice light.

  Jeez, Laney. Are you going to pop out of his cake, wearing pasties and your boyshorts? Get a grip. Don’t overstay your welcome.

  “The hell with that. I’d clear the whole damn schedule for you. It’s just—”

  “I know. It’s boys’ week.”

  “And they’re pigs. But no, you haven’t come this far just to be short of your goal. Those judges are waiting, with perfect scorecards for you.”

  I smiled. “You could come to Hawaii. I mean, it’s a wedding and you do have a monkey suit . . .”

  “Speaking of which, what are you wearing? All I’ve seen of your ensemble is black lace lingerie and flip-flops.”

  I giggled, trying to even remember what I had thrown into my checked luggage that could pass for wedding attire. “I guess I’m a bit of a disorganized packer.”

  “You’re cute.” He nuzzled his nose against mine. “So I guess I’ll forgive you.”

  Propping myself up on my elbow, I turned to face him. “So what do you say? You could teach me to paddleboard, we could make love in a hammock on the beach under a palm tree . . . My mother would think it the scandal of the century if I brought you to crash the wedding.”

  Like the day’s clouds passing overhead, made swift by the wind, I detected a stormy shadow flicker across Noah’s face. “I wish this delay would never end,” he said quietly. I detected more words under the surface, but he just gathered me into his arms like precious cargo. I rubbed my cheek against his scruff, and he turned to lightly lay kisses on my eyelids, the bridge of my nose, and the pulse point on my neck. In the dim light of the room, I could see the bridal dress bag looming on its hook on the open bathroom door.

  • • •

  There’s a honeymoon phase with a new lover, halfway between awake and dreaming, and Noah and I were drifting through it. We lay past midnight, squeezing and dozing, chatting sweet nothings into our dream cycles, and rousing each other with lazy kisses.

  “Hey, what’s your middle name?” I whispered, tracing his strong jawline with my finger. He tilted his head on the pillow toward me. “The mystery letter L on your monogrammed bag.”

  “Would you believe me if I told you ‘Lucky’?”

  I laughed. “No.”

  “Luciano. My mother’s maiden name.”

  “Noah Luciano.” I kissed the tender spot under his ear and felt his jaw relax. “Very melodic.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Just plain old Jane,” I mumbled. “I don’t use it much.” Anymore.

  I felt his lips brush my bangs away from my eyes. “There is nothing plain about you, Laney Hudson.”

  Noah’s phone began to do a little song and dance across the nightstand. He reached up to silence it, but got an armful of me. “Forget it,” he croaked, rolling closer.

  Spooned with my back up against him, I could see, and reach, the phone. “It’s Tim.”

  He groaned. “Just swipe the screen across to unlock, then swipe up to reject it.”

  I reached with my index finger and did as I was told. Up popped three choices to send an automatic text to the rejected caller:

  I’m driving.

  I’m in a meeting.

  Why are you calling? Send a text like a normal person.

  Chuckling, I chose number two. Then I rolled over in his arms.

  “I said you were in a meeting,” I murmured against his chest.

  “I am. It’s a meeting of lips,” he said, drowsily kissing mine. “And a meeting of hips.” Noah’s thumb found my hip bone as his fingers came to rest on my backside. His eyes closed once more, and a small smile played on his lips.

  I gently wound a finger through the curl hanging over his forehead. Morning was going to come too soon, taking him with it. We’d both be going our separate directions. I knew it was inevitable, as was sleep. As my eyes began to close, Noah’s phone beeped and buzzed once more.

  “You’re getting a text now.” I sighed. “Should I reject it with a ‘go to hell’?”

  He mumbled something indistinguishable, but didn’t move. From the corner of my eye, I could see his screen display lit up as bright as a Christmas tree.

  I picked up the phone for him. It was still in unlocked mode, and there was no avoiding the text splayed in caps across the screen.

  CAN’T BELIEVE U R MISSING YOUR OWN BACHELOR PARTY FOR SOME PIECE OF SNATCH IN CHICAGO.

  I dropped it so fast you’d have thought the buzzing phone was a rattlesnake. It went off again.

  GET YOUR ASS TO VEGAS, MAN!

  WHAT HAPPENS HERE, STAYS HERE.

  Whether Noah felt the same way his buddy Tim did or not, the words hit me sharp, and stung. Bravado bolstered by booze made guys talk a good game, but I had no idea whether Noah had told his best bud and best man that the wedding was off.

  Come to think of it, how do I really know he has told Sloane, for that matter?

  Maybe I really was just some piece of ass, some bullet point on his agenda. Just some cheap thrill to nail before he tied the knot? Easy prey?

  Absent fathers make for promiscuous daughters, I could hear my mother say. Maybe Noah had stockpiled all my insecurities and flaws I had shared and used them to bait me with all the hooks, lines, and sinkers needed to get lucky.

  Would you believe me if I told you my middle name was “Lucky”?

  No.

  Check his call history, Laney.

  No.

  I needed to believe in myself for once, and believe Noah wouldn’t hurt me like that. Thinking back to sneaking a peek at his iPhotos, I filled with guilt. Trust was a two-way street.

  He’s not as perfect as you first thought . . . but he’s still pretty much a perfect stranger.

  I turned to Noah’s sleeping form. Gorgeous in dreamland as well as in the real world. No, I refused to give in to the demeaning demons of my self-esteem that were trying to deceive me. Noah was one of the good guys. It was wrong of me to look at his conversation with Tim to prove it, but I couldn’t help myself. It was like I was under a spell.

  Change of plans

  Those three little words Noah had written to Tim hit me harder than piece of snatch.

  You changed the goddamn plan, Laney.

  I couldn’t let Noah do this. Not for the wrong reasons. Not for me.

  The regret of my own decision back on that Long Island beach so many years before made me sure as hell I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else messing up their lives.

  You lucky bastard, Tim had replied. Suddenly I could hear Noah, back in our first hotel room. Unbeknownst to me at the time, he had been describing himself. A lucky bastard . . . on the fast track at work . . . engaged to the boss’s daughter.

  He wasn’t just breaking off his engagement. He was committing professional suicide.

  I swiped my bra from the floor, my panties from the foot of the bed. Go, leave, now. My brain was barking one-word commands with each step I took. I needed to get my things, all my things. The dress. My clothes. My bag. My jacket. My shoes? Where were my shoes?

  I left Noah’s sneakers in a neat row by the door, and I left the sketch I had drawn of him on the hotel desk. Adding a handwritten good-bye message that I hoped he would understand, forgive, and act upon, I fled, my flip-flops sounding like gunshots as they slapped against the marble floor.

  Dramatic exit by elevator was kind of impossible. The door coolly slid open the moment I pushed the down button. As if it had expected me all along. Here comes Laney Jane, going down in flames once again.

  Once the elevator hit ground level, I was
off and running. Past the tables overflowing with gargantuan floral bouquets, away from all the glitzy glaring chandeliers, through the lobby, and down the blue-and-gold-carpeted stairs. I paused only to catch my breath when I reached the other side of revolving door. The frigid night air pierced my lungs, but mentally I was already so numb I didn’t care.

  “Miss?” The concerned face of the bell captain peered down at me. He had followed me from inside and was now clutching his arms in the cold as his valet staff looked on. “Are you all right? Can I call someone for you?”

  The only soul I knew in Chicago had written her phone number on a flight cocktail napkin.

  The Scary Truth

  Even as the cab glided up in darkness, I could tell Anita’s neighborhood was desirable and trendy. The streets of Andersonville were dotted with interesting-looking restaurants, boutiques, and bakeries, although most were shuttered and sleeping at that hour.

  I paid my fare and hauled my bags to her doorway. Had it really only been a day and a half before that I’d glided through LaGuardia Airport with ease? My shoulders screamed and my legs felt leaden.

  Anita pulled open her door. The long legs that I remembered sashaying up the airplane aisle were lost under a pair of men’s flannel pajamas, and her blond hair was piled in a messy bun on top of her head. A wailing child who looked less than a year old bounced on her hip.

  “I am so sorry,” I blurted out. “I just had nowhere else to go and I didn’t know anyone else in Chicago but you and I’m almost down to my last pair of emergency panties.”

  Anita beckoned me in like an old friend, not even batting an eye as I stood in her doorway with snow on my flip-flops and rambled about my underwear while the baby smacked her in the chest with a flailing fist.

  “Did I wake her up?”

  “No, no. This is our nightly ritual around this time.” She attempted to appease the baby with a pacifier that had what looked like a small, boneless plush giraffe hanging from its handle, but the baby refused it. “Don’t worry. My husband’s warming her bottle,” she hollered over the baby’s relentless squawks. “And he’s got the kettle on for tea. Come, come. Sit.”

  I followed her into a beautiful living room. Wide-plank hardwood floors were softened by worn but obviously real Persian rugs. A chocolate-brown leather couch beckoned from between two huge bookcases. CDs, framed photos, and small art objects were tucked sweetly between the colorful spines of the books. I draped the dress bag over the arm of the couch and collapsed next to it. “Oh!” The wall facing me was literally filled floor to ceiling with jewel cases. I had to pop back up and inspect it closer. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen such a vast collection of music.

  Anita swayed with the baby. “My husband,” she said by way of explanation. “I keep telling him he’d better start babyproofing his precious goods. This one is ready to hit the ground running any day now.”

  “Do you have any others?” I asked, running my fingers through the Ds. Yes, with an Alexandria Library’s worth of albums like this, you needed alphabetizing. “Kids, I mean?”

  “We’ve got a thirteen-year-old, too. Holly will sleep through anything, though. Teens.” Anita tsked, kissing the baby’s blond wisps at her temple. I bet she smelled sweet, but I wasn’t about to break my eardrums getting close enough to inhale her.

  “All right, all right, all right!” A guy bustled in from the other room, clutching a bottle like it held the elixir of life. A mess of black curls exploded from every direction in the worst case of bed head I had ever seen, but his features were ruggedly handsome. Muttonchop sideburns angled toward his strong jawline. “C’mere, you little demon.”

  Anita handed off their daughter. The baby homed in on the bottle like a guided missile and eagerly began to suck. Father and daughter settled in on the leather couch. “Daddy to the rescue.” Anita sighed. “This is Laney. Laney, Scott. But everyone calls him—”

  “Scary!” I knew he looked familiar. “You’re the drummer of the Scary Marionettes, aren’t you?” Allen had worshipped this guy’s playing, and their bands had appeared on festival bills together back in the day.

  He grinned, propping bare feet up on the coffee table in front of him. The tattoos began at his ankles and snaked their way up, disappearing beneath the hem of his fleecy leopard robe. The baby reached up and twisted one of his curls around her tiny fingers contentedly.

  “Scary Scott Thomas, I can’t believe it.” I turned to Anita in awe. “I never would’ve guessed the stewardess on my flight was married to, like, the primo stoner rock drummer of all time!”

  “And I never would’ve guessed a passenger on board my flight would be one of the three fans who would recognize him,” she quipped, laughing. “What are the odds of that?”

  “Oh, please, Nita,” Scott scoffed. “You never got to see me fight off the thongs of—oh, I mean, throngs of women, back in my heyday.” He winced as the baby gave his hair a hearty tug.

  “I saw you totally blow the roof off Nassau Coliseum back in 1999.” I remembered it was the show that set Allen’s mind on the path to California. He was convinced the fickle New York music scene would never embrace his sound, and had felt an instant affinity with the Orange County rockers. “I remember it like it was yesterday,” I said softly, more to myself than anything.

  “What’s the difference between a drummer and a large pizza?” Anita teased. Scary rolled his eyes, but he took it good-naturedly. “The pizza can feed a family of four.”

  “Yeah, I’m just the kept man now. She brings home the bacon, ain’t that right, Amelia?” he cooed.

  “We met when I was doing long hauls,” Anita explained. “The band was on my flight for their first European tour. It was the first, right?” He confirmed with a nod. “I didn’t work for a long time after Holly was born. But lemme tell you, being stuck in Cali with a kid all by yourself while your husband is on a month-long tour is enough to make anyone crazy. And I missed my job. I love flying. So . . .”

  “So she dragged me back to the Midwest and now we take turns.”

  “And I’ve got my whole family here to help out.” She sidled up to Scary and Amelia on the couch. “We didn’t plan on this little surprise, but it’s all worked out.”

  “No, we didn’t plan on this sweet little cupcake baked by the devil, did we?” Scary dropped kisses on the crowns of each of their heads in turn. “Shit, the tea!”

  “I got it, sweetie.” Anita ran to silence the kettle. I slipped into the overstuffed chair near the CDs. The Ts were at eye level, and I spied the familiar inserts of Three on a Match’s albums, five releases over the span of Allen’s lifetime. But there were two more as well, unfamiliar to me. They had been recorded with a new drummer. The realization hit me: the band had moved on.

  I spanned them with my hand and felt the bottom of my stomach drop out at the sight of my bare ring finger.

  I had tried to move on. I thought of the girl smiling in the mirror back at the Drake Hotel. I wanted to punch her. A sucker punch, for being such a sucker. Falling for a guy who was taken. Knowing he was goddamn engaged.

  Why set yourself up for failure? I needed to mail myself a card with that Veraism on it as a reminder the next time I fell for a guy. Save me some trouble.

  “So.” Scary flicked his eyes toward the bridal bag, then back to me. “What’s your story?” He set down the empty bottle and brought his daughter to his shoulder, rubbing and patting her back in a soothing rhythm.

  After dating a drummer, you crave rhythm.

  Suddenly, it was all too much. Barging in on this beautiful family, thinking about drummers and bands and Allen and marriage and love. It mixed in my head with visions of Noah at Buckingham Fountain and the press of his body against mine at the hotel door. Change of plans. The evening with Noah had cut deep down to the scar tissue of my past, ripping jagged holes in the places I had thought were smoothed ove
r, and leaving me feeling raw and exposed. The floodgates opened.

  “Scary! What’d you do to her? Jesus. I leave you for two minutes!” Anita scolded, pushing a mug of what smelled like peppermint tea into my hands.

  “No, it was all me! I changed the goddamn plan.” I choked, bringing the warm mug close to my face. Its steam mixed with the hot flow of my tears. “I was engaged to Allen Burnside.”

  “Hot damn, really? I remember him. Nice kid. Helluva drummer. We used to call him Burns. Played so fast, he left scorch marks on the skins.” He shook his head and smiled at the memory. “He had that energy and enthusiasm that made the old guys like me jealous. Shame what happened.” I saw him mouth the word “cancer” to Anita. Baby Amelia turned her head and gave a sleepy burp.

  “Oh, honey.” Anita’s brow crinkled with concern. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s been two years now. I thought I was doing okay and moving on, but—” I gulped my words and tea. It was too hard to say it out loud. “I just keep making all the wrong choices,” I managed to say.

  Scary carefully hoisted himself up. “Crib time,” he whispered. He was probably glad he had a sleepy baby in his arms as an excuse to vacate out of there. Crazy stranger crying in your living room at one A.M. will do that to you.

  Anita plopped herself right down on the floor next to my chair, like we were two friends having a slumber party, getting ready to listen to CDs. “Girl to girl,” she said, blowing across the top of her mug and not meeting my eyes. “Are you leaving Noah at the altar?”

  “I didn’t even know Noah two days ago,” I confessed. “It was all a misunderstanding gone haywire. I let it go too far. The storm came and—”

  “Hold on, hold on, back up. Take a deep breath.”

  I inhaled, the smell of peppermint calming my nerves and thoughts. Somehow I was able to touch upon my time line without lugging out my sketchbook or doing the ugly cry again.

  “It’s my mother’s dress,” I explained. “I was in charge of bringing it to Hawaii for the wedding. I’m sorry I led you on. But getting bumped to first class felt like the consolation prize I deserved.”