Page 7 of Most Likely to Deny Love (Yearbook #2)

MIA

“ Y ou look fine.” Emily glanced at me as she applied another coat of mascara, somehow managing not to stab herself in the eye despite the car being parked at a red light. “Better than fine. You look hot.”

I tugged at the hem of my navy wrap dress, wondering if maybe I should have gone with something less fitted. “She’s going to say something. She always does.”

“Then I’ll dump wine in her lap.” Emily tossed her mascara into her purse as the light turned green. “Oops, so clumsy, Aunt Helen! My bad!”

I laughed despite the knot in my stomach. “Don’t tempt me.”

Because of the meeting with Rebecca, and then dropping the files in the elevator, we were already ten minutes late for dinner at my mom’s. You bet that had my anxiety ratcheting up.

Emily pulled her beat up little hatchback into the pristine driveway, parking beside Megan’s shiny white sedan. The contrast between the two vehicles was almost comical. Emily’s hatchback was covered in bumper stickers and mud, Megan’s car spotless and gleaming.

“Ready?” Emily turned to me, her expression unusually serious.

“As I’ll ever be.” I took a deep breath, reaching for the door handle.

“Hang on.” She grabbed my wrist. “Remember our code word if things get too intense.”

I nodded. “Cantaloupe.”

“The moment either of us says cantaloupe, we fake a work emergency and bail. No questions asked.”

“Yep.”

We walked up the manicured path to the front door, our steps slowing in unison as we approached. The door swung open before we could ring the bell, revealing my mom in a perfectly pressed cream blouse and tailored slacks, not a single gray hair visible in her expertly colored brown bob.

“There you are!” She air-kissed first Emily’s cheek, then mine. “We were about to start without you.”

I felt the familiar tightening in my chest as we stepped inside.

The house smelled of lemon polish and whatever herb-crusted thing was cooking in the oven.

The portrait of Megan’s high school graduation still held the place of honor on the mantle.

My own graduation photo was tucked on a side table, partially obscured by a vase of fresh flowers.

“Sorry we’re late.” I slipped off my shoes and placed them neatly by the door. “Work ran long.” The image of Jack, placing my box of files in my trunk, flashed in my mind. The way he carried it so easily…

“Of course it did.” Mom’s tone managed to imply that this was both a poor excuse and somehow my fault. “Megan’s already shown me the most darling dress options. Come see.”

Emily shot me a look that said, “Here we go,” as we followed Mom into the dining room. The large table was covered with bridal magazines, fabric swatches, and a bottle of white wine that was already half empty.

Megan sat at the table’s head, her silky dark hair cascading over her shoulders, a glass of wine in one manicured hand. She looked up as we entered, her smile tight.

“Finally.” Her tone was a perfect mirror of my mom’s. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten.”

“How could we forget?” Emily’s voice was honey-sweet with practiced insincerity. “You’ve only texted us about it sixteen times in the last two days.”

My aunt Monica, Emily’s mom, emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of appetizers.

Where my mother was all sharp angles and tailored precision, Aunt Monica was that on steroids.

“Emily!” She set down the tray and frowned at her daughter. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

I glanced at Emily’s outfit—black jeans and a flowy emerald blouse that made her brown eyes pop. She looked gorgeous, as always.

“Yes, Mom, this is what I’m wearing.” Emily reached for a stuffed mushroom. “Did you expect me to show up in a ball gown for a Wednesday night dinner?”

“A nice dress wouldn’t kill you,” Aunt Monica muttered. Her gaze shifted to me, eyes dropping briefly to take in my outfit before offering a tight smile. “Mia. That’s a nice color on you. Very slimming.”

And there it was. Less than two minutes in and the first appearance of the word “slimming.” I caught Emily’s eye, and she gave an almost imperceptible head shake. Too soon for cantaloupe. Not yet. Fuck.

“Thanks, Aunt Monica.” I moved to the table, taking the seat next to Megan. “So, show me these dress options.”

She lit up, pushing a glossy magazine toward me. “I’m thinking of a spring garden theme. Light pastels. What do you think of this silhouette for the bridesmaids?”

I checked out the photo, which showed a willowy model in a skin-tight sheath dress with a mermaid flare at the bottom. My heart sank. The dress would look amazing on Emily. On me, it would be a disaster.

“It’s beautiful,” I said carefully. “But maybe not the most flattering cut for all body types.”

Megan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“She means she’s worried about looking fat in it,” my mother said bluntly, pouring herself more wine. “She got her father’s genes, after all. Isn’t that right, Mia?”

Emily choked on her stuffed mushroom.

The room went quiet, the kind of silence that feels like standing on thin ice, waiting for it to crack. I swallowed hard, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

“I just meant that different silhouettes flatter different figures,” I managed. “Something A-line might be better.”

Megan thumbed through the magazine with a small frown. “But that’s not really the aesthetic I’m going for.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Mia,” my mom waved dismissively. “She has plenty of time to tone up before the wedding. What’s it now, six months? That’s more than enough time if you’re disciplined.”

Suddenly, I was ten years old again, standing in front of the mirror while Mom pinched the baby fat at my waist and told me we needed to be more careful about sweets.

“Heaven forbid someone with actual curves ruin your precious wedding album,” Emily muttered.

“That’s not what I meant.” Mom protested, though her tone suggested otherwise.

Megan looked between us, clearly annoyed “Can we please just focus on the dresses? I only have tonight to decide before the bridal shop needs my final choice.”

“Okay then.” I tried to muster up some enthusiasm. “What other styles are you considering?”

Megan pulled out another magazine, this one opened to a page showing a slightly less form-fitting option. “This one’s nice too. It has a bit more flow to it.”

I examined the image, relief washing over me. The dress was a delicate chiffon with a sweetheart neckline and natural waist. There was a good chance I wouldn’t look like a whale in it. “I really like this one.”

“You do?” Megan seemed surprised. “But it’s not as dramatic as the first one.”

“It’s elegant,” I offered. “And the fabric would move beautifully in photos, especially for an outdoor wedding.”

My mother peered over Megan’s shoulder. “It’s certainly more forgiving.”

I bit my tongue so hard it almost bled. Beside me, Emily tensed, ready to launch another defense, but I gave a tiny head shake. Not worth it.

Aunt Monica appeared at my shoulder with a plate of cheese and crackers. “You should try some of this brie, Mia. It’s delicious.”

The way she said it made it clear that she thought I shouldn’t try the brie, and that she was fucking baiting me. I took a large piece and placed it on my plate, maintaining eye contact as I did so.

“Thanks. I love brie.”

Emily stifled a laugh behind the bridal magazine Megan had given her. Then she gasped with excitement, flipping the magazine around so we could all see the page. “What about these? They’re convertible dresses. You can style them different ways.”

Thank fuck for Emily. “Wow! They look great!”

Mom frowned. “But will they photograph well? All that fabric bunching in different ways could look messy.”

Aunt Monica took the magazine from Emily. “Let’s keep looking.”

The rest of dinner passed in the same way and by the time dessert was served I was mentally exhausted.

Mom, cutting a tiny sliver of cake, flicked me a look. “So, how’s work? Still managing that sales team?”

The way she said “managing” made it sound like a temporary position, something I was trying out rather than a role I’d earned through years of hard work.

“Yes, still managing,” I said. “My team exceeded targets again this quarter.”

“That’s nice, dear.” She nodded absently. “And are you seeing anyone?”

I felt Emily kick me under the table.

“Not currently, no.” I pushed a grape around my plate.

Mom’s lips pursed into a familiar expression, a mixture of pity and judgment that made my stomach churn. “Well, I suppose that’s to be expected.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emily’s voice was dangerously quiet.

“Nothing.” Mom waved her hand dismissively, but her eyes told a different story as they flickered over my figure. “It’s just that dating is so competitive these days. All those apps and whatnot. And you know how visual men are.”

The implication hung over me like a toxic fucking cloud: Who would swipe right on you?

“I’m not on dating apps.” I struggled to keep my voice steady. “I’m focused on my career.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Aunt Monica chimed in with fake sympathy. “Those apps can be so brutal. At least with your job, you have something to feel good about.”

I felt the familiar burn of shame creeping up my neck. The knife twisted, but I kept my expression neutral. Emily, however, had reached her limit.

I almost slumped with relief when I heard her whisper, “cantaloupe.” Then she pulled out her phone. “Oh no, Mia, look at this email! We have to go deal with this right away .”

“Oh! Yes, that looks urgent. I’m so sorry, but we need to go handle this.”

Mom’s expression soured. “You’re leaving? But we haven’t finalized the dress choice.”

“I vote for the convertible dresses.” I was already standing and gathering my things. “They’re perfect.”

Emily was already halfway to the door, her escape velocity impressive. I followed after giving quick goodbye hugs to everyone, carefully avoiding my mom’s disapproving gaze.

The moment we were in the car, Emily let out a theatrical groan. “Jesus fuck, that was excruciating.”

I leaned back against the headrest. “Thanks for the cantaloupe.”

“Should have done it an hour ago.” She started the engine. “Was it just me, or were they especially vicious tonight?”

“Not just you. Megan’s wedding has sent them into overdrive, I guess.” I closed my eyes. “God, I need a drink. A real one, not that sad pinot grigio they were serving.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve got some tequila at home.”

“Fucking perfect.”