Page 138 of Silas

I reach for the twisted mess of stretchy fabric. “I need it. Give it back.”

“Since when you do wear Spanx?” She dances out of reach, eluding me with her stupid long arms and legs.

"Since my best friend is getting married to the man of her dreams, and that dress gives me back fat, makes my ass look even bigger than it is, and doesn't contain my out-of-control tits in the fucking slightest."

Emily finds a pair of scissors in her purse because she's that girl who will pull literally anything out of her purse at any given time. Right before my horrified eyes, she cuts the Spanx to pieces.

"Emily Eileen Cummings! That shit cost me a hundred and fifty goddamn dollars!"

"I'll pay you back," she says, throwing the ruined garment on the floor at my feet. "You'll thank me someday. Friends don't let friends wear Spanx when they don'tfucking need it!” She marches back across the hotel room to my duffel bag, rummages in it, and pulls out a black thong and matching strapless bra. "Now get dressed. Tom is waiting."

“Goddammit, Emily. Why do you hate me? After all I’ve done for you.” I angrily yank up the thong and angrily shove my tits into the bra. “But it’s on you when you look back at the photos and see me looking like a trussed-up emerald trollop.”

“Well, youarea trollop,” she says, handing me the offending garment. “But you’remytrollop, and I love you, and you’re gonna be beautiful. You have an amazing body. Yates won’t be able to keep his eyes off you,” Emily says, referring to Tom’s best man.

"That's because he's certain I'm going to fuck him in the broom closet during the reception," I say.

Emily watches me pull the dress over my head and then helps me zip up the back. "No fucking Yates, Terra. He's engaged."

"Barely," I mutter. "And I don't like his fiancé She’s annoying."

“She only annoys you because she runs five miles a day and has visible abs,” Emily says, laughing. “She’s lovely and wonderful.”

“She’s obnoxious, and Yates is too good for her. Even if his name is utterly stupid.” I eye her in the mirror. “And if he’ssooooin love withKaleigh,” I say, snarkily emphasizing her name because the way it’s spelled annoys me to no end, “then why does he think I’m going to fuck him in the broom closet during the reception?”

“Why do you think he thinks you’re going to fuck him in the broom closet during the reception?”

“Because he made a point of looking into the broom closet while we were doing the tour and wiggled his eyebrows at me rather suggestively.”

“Oh.” Emily sighs. “Yates is a dog. He’s always been a dog. He hit on me once, when he was drunk. Tom punched him in the nose and told him he’d Nair his head while he slept if he ever hit on me again.”

I snort a giggle. “Is that why he suddenly showed up bald as Captain Picard, a few months ago?”

“Yep,” Emily snickers. “He hit on me again, so Tom Naired his head.”

“Why is Tom still friends with him, then?” I ask.

“They’ve been friends since the second grade,” Emily answers. “I guess Tom keeps hoping Yates will grow up, someday. We were hoping being with Kaleigh would help.”

“Too bad Kaleigh couldn’t make the wedding,” I remark, giving myself a scrutinizing look in the mirror. “Shecould fuck him in the broom closet.”

I lift one arm and turn sideways: yep, chub rolls hang over the side of the dress at my underarms. I turn around and glance over one shoulder. Huge green ass, like She-Hulk got shrunk to the size of a Munchkin from Wizard of Oz? Check. Back fat bulging in weird places? Check.

I turn to face front. Tits about to pop free if I so much as breathe wrong? Check and check.

I sigh, turn to face Emily, holding out my arms and then letting them slap against my hips. "Well? Here I am. Trussed up emerald trollop."

Emily tugs my bodice up and the hem down, and then cups my cheeks and kisses me full on the lips. "You're hot." She pops me on the butt. "Now help me with my dress. I want to eat cake, and I can't do that till I've gotten married."

I follow her into the bathroom, where her dress hangs from the hook on the back of the door. I pull it down, ease it off the hanger, and then carefully bunch the gown so I can gingerly work the opening over her voluminous updo. Once the hard part is done, she tugs it down over her hips with a wiggle, and I button the forty million tiny little buttons up her spine.

Her dress is vintage, an authentic flapper dress from the 20s, ivory with a beaded fringe hem at a rakish angle around her slim thighs and pearls studded in intricate patterns around the bodice and open back. I fit the stretchy ivory lace headband around her temples, adjusting the huge white dahlia pinned to the lace so it sits above her left ear, and then pull her bangs free to drape around her heart-shaped face.

"You’re perfect Roaring 20s hotness," I tell her. "Tom will be speechless."

She smiles at me gratefully and then examines her reflection. "You really worked magic on this dress, Terra." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "I can't thank you enough."

"Well, I could have made you a custom gown, but you wanted vintage, so..."