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vivianna
A dress is hurtling toward my face at fifty miles an hour.
The silk wacks me straight in the face due to my pitiful reflexes and I stumble backward onto my bed, seething.
“What the hell, Reese?”
Reese McCormack. Light brown skin, freckles and a mane of black curls. I’ve had the misfortune of knowing her since we were in middle school and she’s every bit as irritating at twenty-six as she was at twelve.
“You’ve gotta bring that dress,” she shoots back, turning back to my closet and rummaging through the rest of my clothes like some sort of animal foraging through trash.
“Oh,” I reply, “so, naturally, you decided to throw it at my face.”
“Naturally,” Reese replies. A smirk slides onto her lips as she adds yet another layer of vaseline to them, facing me.
Flashing her a cold glance, I take in the dress. It’s a lavender-colored beaut that I impulsively bought a few months ago to wear to an elitist dinner for a date with my then-boyfriend, who decided to break up with me then and there.
I mean, damn, if he didn’t like the dress, he could’ve just told me.
That’s the little joke I make whenever I tell someone the story. But they tend to give me an awkward little laugh in response, eyes flicking away. Or they’ll pull a Mom and say my name with so much pity, eyes so sympathetic that I wish I never told them the story in the first place.
“I know that’s The Dress,” Reese says before I can respond. “The one you wore when that guy broke up with you.”
She doesn’t say my ex’s name anymore. He’s just “that guy” now. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, if you will.
The dinner That Guy broke up with me appears in my subconscious more often than I would like. I call it The Last Supper.
People don’t find that joke funny either.
“But?” My eyebrows rise.
Reese plows on. “But it’s your dress. Not his. And it’s a damn beautiful dress.”
“I sure hope so,” I say, “I spent a good two hundred bucks on it.”
“All the more reason why you should wear it,” Reese insists. “I’ll be watching Lovebound from my sofa soon, and if I don’t see you eating up the girls with that dress, we’ll have problems.”
Lovebound. Apparently, I’m in a reality TV show now. A way to bounce back from That Guy, move on. Lovebound is a show that promises love to its participants. Now whether it’s lasting love is a whole other story.
But I was tipsy and teary after That Guy broke up with me, impulsively called Reese, and as I was making my way to her apartment, a Lovebound ad fell to the ground right in front of me, like my life was some corny musical, and I was about to break out into song any minute.
My emotions being totally unregulated, I showed Reese the flier and she irresponsibly encouraged me to sign up for the show, because Reese McCormack is not the type of girl who dissuades you from making some of the worst decisions of your life, especially if she thinks the risk has some merit.
I applied for the new season that evening, following the ad’s instructions, and called it a night. I actually totally forgot about it until they got back to me a few weeks ago— several months after I applied— to tell me that I would be in the next season.
And then I realized how impulsive of a decision it was to sign up and nearly lost my mind until Reese calmed me down and convinced me the pros outshone the cons.
I could fall in love, and if I didn’t, I’d have a fun story to tell any future kids. Plus, it was a vacation, all expenses paid, and I haven’t been on a vacation since Reese and I went to Miami for her 21st birthday. It’s been a hot minute.
The clinic’s been busy, and I don’t hate the idea of temporarily ditching the city for a breather.
“You don’t have to convince me,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I was going to bring the dress anyway.”
I wasn’t going to bring it.
I don’t like to think I have sentimental attachment to any sort of item, or associate feelings with clothes, but I do, to some extent. I haven’t worn the sweatshirt That Guy gave me since we broke up. I keep tossing it into the washing machine, but it still smells like him.
But I did spend way too much money on this stupid dress to wear it only once. Plus, the dress needs new memories.
I fold it into my suitcase.
Reese flings herself onto my bed stomach-first, eyes on me. “You’re going tomorrow. You’ll be gone for so long that I might forget what you look like.”
I snort. “It’s a month. You’ll be fine. And besides, you wanted me to go.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.”
“You’re so clingy,” I say, zipping my suitcase as she settles onto it, legs swinging. “But I’ll call.”
“You’ll video call.”
I roll my eyes and shove her off my suitcase. “I’ll video call.”
“Good,” she says, unperturbed as she leans against my suitcase. With nothing else to pack, I allow Reese to tug me down to the bed.
“Everything will be fine,” she assures me, hand circling my back.
I let out a wry laugh. “Let’s hope so.”