A Prom to Remember(38)
Paisley rolled her eyes. “I don’t know that her perfume is natural. I’m pretty sure you can buy it by the bottle at any Macy’s store.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t really know what you mean, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“So what should I do?”
“You need to tell her you don’t want to go with her. Plain and simple.”
“She’s going to hate me. I don’t like the idea of people hating me.”
“You could blame it on me if you want.”
“Why? So she can hate both of us?” he asked.
“The good news is that I don’t care whether Amelia Vaughn likes me or not.”
“How would I blame it on you?”
“Just tell her that”—Paisley paused to finish chewing a big bite of pizza—“you feel bad because you forgot that you told me you’d go with me a million years ago. Like sophomore year or some crap like that. And I only recently reminded you about it, and now I’m being a complete bitch.”
“You’re not a bitch.” Henry dropped his voice low on the last word.
“Tell her it was a bet! That we made a bet and I won and you totally forgot. This would be mutually beneficial because then I would feel even less guilt about saying no to the entire baseball team.”
“You really wouldn’t care if I threw you under the bus like that?”
“I really would not care. Especially if it meant that I didn’t have to listen to you whine and bitch anymore.”
“Have I really been that bad?”
Paisley nodded. “You need to call her.”
“No way! Can’t I mail her a kindly worded letter?”
“I don’t trust the postal service to get her that in time.”
“A postcard with some kind of beautiful vista on the front. Possibly a beach landscape, something soothing so she doesn’t kill me.”
At that moment, Henry’s phone chimed.
He looked at it like it was a bomb about to go off. “Oh god, oh god. It’s definitely going to be her. I don’t think I can handle it.”
He unlocked his phone and handed it to Paisley, covering his face with his hands.
“She’s asking about a boutonniere. And what color your tie is.”
“I need to wear a specifically colored tie?” Henry asked from behind his hands.
“I mean, you don’t have to. But some guys do I guess.”
Henry lowered his hands and let out a long sigh. “Give me the phone. I need to put both of us out of our misery.”
“By both, do you mean you and her, or you and me? Because I should be included in this no matter what. I have been miserable.”
He took his phone from Paisley and started crafting a text message.
“What do you think?” he asked Paisley after he finished.
She read it out loud. “Amelia, I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I have to go to the prom with my friend Paisley. It turned out I had already said yes to her a while ago and I totally forgot. I’m sure you understand. Sorry.”
Paisley shrugged. “I would feel rejected but would walk away quietly. I’m not Amelia, though. I’m sure she’ll find something to argue, some loophole, but it works in my personal opinion.”
Henry hit send. He sat back and tried to relax.
“Can I do something for you? A massage or something?”
He looked over at Paisley. “You would give me a massage?”
“Not really. But you seem so stressed out.”
“I am stressed out! I’ve been telling you I’m stressed out!”
“Okay, okay,” Paisley said, raising her hands defensively.
“You realize what you’ve done to yourself, right?” Henry asked with a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“What do you mean?”
“You have to go to the prom with me now.”
“What? No. I got you out of the prom.”
“Um, no. You got me out of the prom with Amelia.”
“Oh shit. I am the worst. I hate me. Everyone should hate me.”
Henry’s phone pinged. He took a deep breath and looked at the screen.
Henry showed it to Paisley. “Oh yeah, she hates you.”
“You know, I think I’m actually okay with that. I’m just so relieved. I can feel my ulcer going away already.”
“It doesn’t work like that, but whatever you need to tell yourself to get through the day,” Paisley said, patting him on the head.
“Thanks, Paisley. This was really excellent.”
She burped. “That meant you’re welcome. In case you couldn’t tell.”
Chapter 18
Paisley
Paisley wandered around the prom dress section of Macy’s searching not for the perfect dress but for any old dress that she didn’t absolutely hate. She hated a lot of dresses, so this was a challenge.
Most of them were too short or too long, too puffy or too flat. She wasn’t supermodel tall, and she did not have the boobs for a lot of the styles. And why was it too much to hope to find a dress with pockets? She’d be so much more comfortable through the whole evening if she had somewhere to stick her hands when she didn’t know what to do with them.