Thorne Princess(2)
Sitting upright, I shot him an offended look. This garment was the kind of claustrophobically tight that would later need to be surgically removed.
“Balmain only makes stuff up to size twelve,” I mumbled defensively.
“Well, the zipper is probably one hors d’oeuvre away from filing a restraining order against you, so I suggest you go back and change.” Keller smoothed an invisible wrinkle on his cigar pants.
Dennis glanced in the rearview mirror to see if he should turn around and drive back to my house. I shook my head. Absolutely not. I was a size twelve. Sometimes I was even a size ten (though definitely not between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Or Easter. Or while PMSing).
The problem with designer numbers was that they were made exclusively for trim people. I loved my body. Every curve and hard-earned cellulite cell. I knew, logically, designers rarely made true-to-size garments. Their ten was an eight, their twelve was a ten, and their fourteen was…well, nonexistent. But I never bought anything off the rack. To keep it eco-friendly, I always shopped in secondhand stores for gowns, but that limited my options pretty significantly.
“The dress stays,” I announced.
“Not for long, if your tits have anything to say about it,” Keller muttered.
“You’re just bitter because your eyes are baggy.”
“My eyes are baggy?” Keller thundered, ripping his gaze from his phone.
Grinning, I shrugged. “No, but now you know what it feels like to be dissed by your best friend. Doesn’t feel too good, does it?”
Twenty minutes later, Dennis stopped by The Chateau. I squeezed my driver’s shoulder from behind, squishing my cheek against his. “Thanks, Den! You can take tonight off. I’ll Uber it home.”
“I think I’ll stay,” sixty-five-year-old Dennis said wearily. “Your parents aren’t gonna like the Uber idea.” He’d been my driver since I was eight, and knew my parents better than I.
Mr. and Mrs. Thorne did not like it when I left the house—not because they so enjoyed my company. My mere and flawed existence caused them embarrassment by proxy. The nicest thing my mother had ever said about me in an interview was that I added texture to the family. Texture. Like I was a decorative wallpaper. And so, I didn’t particularly care what they’d approve of.
I waved Dennis off. “Keller is going to be right here with me. He’ll keep me out of trouble. Right, Kel?”
“As much as one can.” Keller slipped out of the Cadillac, eyeing the arched entryway eagerly. “Unless whoever attacks you is armed. You know I just cannot with blood. Or if I get hit on by someone hot. But I’m talking Zac Efron as Ted Bundy hot. If it’s just Zac Efron in High School Musical level, I’ve got your back, girl.”
“If you find your Zac Efron in High School Musical, I won’t be bailing you out for lewd acts with a minor,” I fired back.
Keller raised his thumb. “I’m sure this conversation is totally reassuring to Dennis. He now trusts you not to get into trouble.”
I brought my mini smartphone to my lips. “Siri, remind me to make a voodoo doll of my best friend and use it as a pincushion tomorrow morning.”
“Event added to calendar,” Siri replied primly.
Hopping out of the vehicle, I flashed Dennis an angelic, I’ll-be-good smile and pressed my palms together. “Seriously, Den. I’ll behave. Go home. I’m sure Ethel is waiting with her special gingerbread cookies.”
He stroked his chin. “She did say she’s making a fresh batch this morning…”
In a lot of ways, Dennis and Ethel were more of a family to me than Mom and Dad. I’d spent more holidays with them, they took care of me when I was sick, and showed up for my parent-teacher conferences whenever Mom and Dad had been busy at a climate change summit or grilling a tech bro in Congress.
Dennis swung his gaze from my forced smile to the open jaws of The Chateau. He’d taken me here enough times to know I was bound to get drunk, rack up a bill, and end the night vomiting champagne more expensive than his suit into his back seat.
He didn’t want to deal with me. Who could blame him? I could barely tolerate myself. Which was why I planned to drown myself in alcohol tonight.
He sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Just be careful, all right? And go home early.”
“You’re the best, Den. Send Ethel my love!”
He tilted his cloth hat downward. “How ’bout you pay her a visit sometime soon and tell her yourself?”
Dennis and Ethel only languished in Los Angeles because of me. They longed to go back to the East Coast, to their family. I hated that I was a part of their misery, which was why I never dragged myself to their Encino bungalow and endured weak tea and Jeopardy! on loop while Ethel took out her photo albums to show me pictures of the grandchildren they weren’t able to see…because of me. Too depressing. I hadn’t found a liquor strong enough to counter that guilt. Yet.
“Will do, Den.”
He drove off, leaving us in a cloud of exhaust smoke. Ugh. We had to talk about switching to a Tesla.
Keller laced his arm in mine, gazing at the infamous white stack of bricks with twinkling eyes. “At last, we’re in our natural habitat.”
The masquerade ball was hosted as a fundraiser by a plastic surgery clinic in the valley for veterans who’d suffered burn scars. Keller and I had both put 5k in our envelopes, but neither of us showed up for the pre-ball dinner. Keller didn’t like eating in public (true story) and I didn’t like being bombarded with questions and requests about my family.