I grab a blue dress of floral burnout velvet and yank it on over my head. Somehow neither black nor blue appeal to me, though maybe they’re appropriate considering how bruised my emotions are.
“I’m just so angry. At myself more than anything. I don’t see myself having fun this year; it’ll be a reminder of all the other years I got blown off for some stupid ski trip. It’s been four years since I had a date to this thing. Do you know I even asked Mason if he’d be in town through New Year’s? I’d just met the guy and could already picture being at the party with him. I guess that’s pretty good evidence of how done I was with Barnaby, but I still felt rejected.”
Nina’s voice comes back muffled. “You want my honest opinion?”
I don’t answer, knowing I’ll get it regardless. Nina only pauses for a breath anyway.
“I think you do need to get laid, to get them both out of your system. To take back some fucking power. Being single isn’t the end of the world. If it was, I’d have given up a long time ago. We’ll have fun, I promise.”
I pull off the blue dress and stand in my underwear in front of the mirror again.
“I used to think Barnaby just hated me in high heels.” I’m in heels now too, borrowed from the shelf up front to try on with the dresses. Standing here in nothing but panties and pumps, I stare more critically at my slender form. “Lanky” is probably a better word. Too tall for most men—Barnaby included, who’s an inch shorter than me, so I always wore flats when we went out together. In these heels, I top six feet. My workouts consist of running and swimming, and for the past five years, I’ve eaten most of my meals while on the move. It’s hard to put on extra weight if you never sit down, but it hasn’t left me with much in the way of curves, at least not the kind that Nina has. I wonder if the Aspen tart is curvy and big-breasted, then curse softly for even entertaining a comparison.
“If he did, that’s his problem. Any man secure enough in his masculinity would recognize what a fucking goddess you are and be happy to stand beside you. You turn men’s heads wherever you go.”
“I think you’re the one who does that. You’ve got great tits. Mine are . . . inconsequential.” I squeeze my small breasts and shove them together, creating the pretense of cleavage.
“Wits and tits, sweetie,” Nina sing-songs. “Anyway, it isn’t your tits that catch their attention. You’re just . . . I don’t know . . . graceful.”
“Like a giraffe.”
“So we’ll find you a tall guy.”
My eyes shift down to the caduceus etched into the inner well of my hipbone right at the edge of my panties. An unexpected jolt of arousal shoots through me when the memory of Mason caressing me there returns. He grazed it with his thumb repeatedly as though it had a texture, all while pounding his thick cock into me in that tiny little airplane lavatory. I touch the small, red tattoo delicately with a fingertip and note that it does have a slight texture, the lines raised in the faintest relief on my skin.
It’s been hard enough to bury thoughts of him, but those few minutes come back in a rush—how much he filled that small space, overwhelming all my senses, and filling me up in a way I’d never experienced before.
Mason was tall. Tall enough he’d still tower over me even if I chose to wear high heels. I clench my teeth as a fresh wave of regret and frustration surges through me.
“Fuck! Am I always going to make the wrong decision where men are concerned? I’m such a fucking idiot!”
I eye my tattoo again, a new sense of determination filling me, powered mostly by that anger. Nina is right; it’s well past time I took control of my love life.
I pull on the last dress and zip it up, then stare into the mirror. It’s a sheath of blood-red silk with a halter bodice that’s ruched along the midsection.
This is the one.
Mostly it just feels good. The bodice hugs and accents my meager offerings. My tits look amazing in this dress. I turn and eye the backless swoop and the span of silk across my backside. Yes, my ass looks fantastic too. The column of red silk extends to the floor, just clearing the tops of my shoes, and has a subtle slit up one side that isn’t visible unless I’m moving.
I step out of the dressing room for another view at a distance. Nina steps out of hers a second later in a pretty little black dress with a beaded, strapless bodice and lacy shrug.
“I’m thinking of going with a power color this year,” I say.
“That’s my girl! Does this mean you’re going after all?”
“If I buy this dress, I’m required to wear it to a party, aren’t I? And I can’t not buy this dress.”
She bounces and lets out a yip of happiness, her dark ringlets vibrating like little springs. Her enthusiasm has always been infectious, and her wisdom spot-on. I grin back, not speaking because I’m suddenly choked up over what an amazing friend Nina has been all these years.
We head to the counter to buy our dresses, Nina slyly snagging a red lace thong from a lingerie display and adding it to my pile with a wink. I pull out my wallet when the cashier reports the total, which is more than I’ve spent on clothes all year. But my sticker shock fades when I see a jagged-edged scrap of paper sticking out of the little pocket that holds my driver’s license. It’s the acknowledgments page from the back of the book I was reading—or rather, abandoned reading—on the flight from LA.
My heart does a
