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"Nothing happened," I tell her. "You didn't do anything, Mom; I was just born this way. There's nothing to fix."

"Ma'am!" Angela says, pounding on the door. "Ma'am, you need to come out right now!"

"Don't come in! I'm naked, and I'm mentally ill!" I shout.

My mom inhales, choking back laughter.

"There is no smoking in this building! We have dresses worth more than cars in here!"

"Well, maybe you should think about that from an ethical perspective!" I reply.

"Don't make me call the police!"

"It's out," my mom says, extinguishing the cigarette against the dressing room wall. "Fucking cunt."

Maybe I did fall from her tree after all.

"I want a margarita. Do you want a margarita?"

I shrug. "I'm not going to say no."

"Get dressed," she says, leaving the room.

I step out of the bridesmaid gown and back into my own clothes, and then my mom and I walk to the car together, where Blakely has already retreated in shame.

"It's not personal, Teagan," Blakely says when I climb into the vehicle.

"It is," I tell her. "It's very, very personal, Blake. As usual, I don't expect you to understand."

"Teagan—"

"We're getting tacos," my mom interrupts. "And margaritas. We're done with this conversation."

We pull into the parking lot of a nearby Mexican restaurant and then follow the hostess through the empty, nearly dark dining room to our table. Mom immediately requests the largest pitcher of margaritas possible.

"Well, I approve of the lighting," Mom says after the server leaves. "It's great for privacy."

"Yeah, or if you're out with someone you're ashamed of," I say. "Perfect for dining with mistresses or disgraced family members."

"No one said they were ashamed of you, Teagan. Stop being dramatic," Blakely says.

"No, I'm just embarrassing and disgusting, right?"

"Stop it," my mom says. "Both of you—you're too old for this shit. Fuck, I'm too old for this shit."

I feel bad for her—maybe I shouldn't, but I do. She's trying, but I'm not Blakely. I just don't fit.

The server sets a pitcher of margaritas down on the table.

"Thank god," my mom says. "Can we get some guacamole and queso for the table, too?"

"Sure," the server says. "I'll be back with that in just a few minutes."

"I'm going to use the restroom," I tell them.

I leave the table and cross the dining room toward the bathrooms. The mariachi music playing at an acceptable decibel in the dining room blares loudly inside the small space. I use the toilet, flush, and begin washing my hands before something gold reflecting off the bathroom mirror catches my eye.

Turning off the water, I look up and see a tall figure dressed in all black with a gold mask casually leaning against the back wall, his arms crossed in front of him.