“It’s fine,” I say. Because suddenly I’m one hundred percent devoted to reassuring women. Hell if it does me any good, though—I can’t tell a damn thing from Naomi’s schooled expression. “I was just going to ask Birdie about her plans for the day.”
Naomi’s eyes flicker to mine. “Oh,” she says softly. “We’re going dress shopping. Time to haggle over prices and cry and swoon. It’s the big event.”
“Want to come?” Birdie asks me that—and seems shocked to have done so. “I’m totally kidding, obviously. This would be your exact hell on earth.”
“I think I’ll live.”
“What?” Birdie holds her breath, letting it out in a giant rush. “You’re coming dress shopping?”
I stop trying to hide my smile when it becomes impossible. “Looks like I am.”
Birdie turns to Naomi. “Can we wait for him to shower?”
The pageant coach is watching me thoughtfully, and the more we neglect to look away, the more my pulse starts to weigh down with a now familiar thickness. One that’s only ever been inspired by this one woman who comes with a shit ton of complications. “Of course,” she drawls. “Try not to clog the drain.”
“I make no promises.”
I leave them laughing in the kitchen, feeling lighter than I have in a while, save the impossible-to-slake ache in my sweatpants. Two hours later, though, I realize I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to go dress shopping.
*
It’s absolute bedlam.
There’s a thirty percent off sale on ball gowns happening at the department store, and while I appreciate Naomi’s attempt to save me money, I would have gladly paid full price to avoid the screeching of hangers on clothing racks and squealing. There is so much squealing.
None of it is coming from my sister. I’ve seen her expression before, usually worn by men on the wrong side of an ambush. She’s trying to talk herself out of retreating, but keeping one eye on the exit. Naomi has a deceptively casual arm around Birdie’s shoulder, ushering her through the endless racks of sparkly, poofy dresses, and I know she’s prepared to tackle my sister if she tries to run. Not that you could gauge it based on her composure, as if she’s shopped for dresses in a veritable sanitarium every day of her life.
I’m following them around a circular rack, trying to ignore the curious looks and whispers I’m getting from the other shoppers. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“We’ll know when we find it,” Naomi breezes. “But I think Birdie is a winter.”
“Come again?”
“Her complexion will pair well with winter colors. Navy, violet, mulberry…even a shocking pink could—”
“Help me look less like a goth who strayed from the pack?” Birdie supplies, scrubbing at her blue hair.
Chuckling, Naomi pulls my sister close. “Now, Birdie. You’re gorgeous in jeans and a sweatshirt, but just you wait. Ball gowns are a higher power. They boost things up, tuck others away and smooth creases in between—”
“Of all the days to join you, I choose this one,” I mutter.
“But it’s more about the way a gown makes you feel, though. The right one will bolster your confidence.” She adds in a murmur, “If we find the right one, you’ll finally see what I see.”
“Pink.” Birdie squares her shoulders. “Natalie would have chosen pink.”
“What color do you want?”
I’m grateful when Naomi asks the question because I was about to do the same. When Birdie came to me wanting to compete in the pageant in Natalie’s memory, I hoped it would give her something to focus on. A positive way to remember her twin. Did I do the right thing? She seems almost single-minded in her determination to make this experience exactly what Natalie would have chosen. Is she losing sight of herself in the process?
“I want pink, too,” Birdie says with a tight smile. “The shocking kind.”
Naomi lets her arm fall as Birdie walks away, scooting around a trio of mothers toward another rack. After a minute, Naomi goes back to sifting through the offerings, but there’s a wrinkle of concern between her brows.
“What is it?”
She hums, lifting up a blue dress covered in at least nine thousand sequins for inspection. “It’s odd. She’s doing all of this because of Natalie, but she’s only spoken to me about her sister on one occasion. Other than that, it’s what you heard there. Natalie would want this or that.” She chews her lip a moment, before glancing up at me. “Do you know what their relationship was like? Before it happened?”
“No clue.” I scrub at the cold that surfaces on the back of my neck. “I remember them as kids, mostly. They were late additions for my parents. I left when they were still in elementary school.” I swallow something heavy. “Every time I came back they were taller, had new haircuts, sounded different.”