“WE’RE GOING TO GET THIS. I swear to God.” Mom stares at the screen of her phone and then catches my eye in the mirror. “I watched the tutorial like fifty times.”
“I’m sure you did.” I smile faintly.
“It’s just not working. Why do I suck at this?”
“You don’t suck.” There’s this little loop of hair hanging awkwardly over my ear, so I give it a tug. And now there’s one straight chunk of hair stringing down like a massive sideburn. Welp.
Mom groans.
I’ve spent the last hour in her bedroom, letting her knock herself out with every hair appliance ever invented. I’m still in pajamas, and Garrett’s not coming for another five hours. But Mom’s obsessively checking the time on her phone, like he might bust in at any moment.
“Okay. Starting over.” She combs her fingers through my hair, retrieving approximately ten thousand bobby pins. Then she spritzes it with water and brushes it straight again. “I swear to God . . .”
For my part, I’m numb. I just can’t muster any fucks to give. I get that prom’s supposed to be a huge deal—but for what? Why the effort? I honestly don’t care about impressing my date. And maybe some stupid tiny part of me wants to impress someone—but if that someone is off-limits, then what’s the point?
Mom licks her lips. “Let me blow-dry you again.”
“Go for it.”
She goes for it.
It’s funny—I never even thought I’d go to prom, and here I am doing the whole routine that goes with it. We’re taking pictures at Simon’s house and then riding an actual limo to some fancy-pants restaurant in Alpharetta. It’s just a real suburban high school wet dream.
Mom turns off the dryer. “I hate that you’re fighting with Morgan and Anna,” she says, out of nowhere.
“Why?”
“I just don’t like that there’s tension. I want you to have that perfect night.”
“That’s a myth.”
“What’s a myth?”
“The perfect prom night.”
Mom laughs. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like a teen movie cliché. You have the choreographed group dance number and the weird pining eye contact, and then the big smoochy kiss.”
“That sounds like a great prom,” Mom says.
“It’s a joke.”
“God, Leah.” She trails her hands through my hair and loops a strand of it around her finger. “How did you get so cynical?”
“I can’t help it. I’m a Slytherin.”
And I’m the worst kind of Slytherin. I’m the kind who’s so stupidly in love with a Gryffindor, she can’t even function. I’m the Draco from some shitty Drarry fic that the author abandoned after four chapters.
“Well, my prom was beautiful,” Mom says. “It was one of the most romantic nights of my life.”
“Weren’t you pregnant?”
“So? It was still wonderful.” She smiles. “Did you know I had an ultrasound the day before my prom?”
“That’s . . . cool?”
“It was cool! It was the big one, too. That’s when I found out your gender.”
“Gender is a social construction.”
“I know, I know.” She pokes my cheek. “I don’t know. I was just so excited about it. I didn’t even care what sex you were. I just wanted to know everything about you.”
I snort. “That sounds about right.”
“I just perfectly remember lying there on the table, seeing you on the little monitor. You were so . . .”
“Fetal?”
“Yes.” She grins. “But also—I don’t know. You were just such a little trouper in there. I remember being so moved by that. Here I was, with all this stuff going on—school and prom and your dad, but you just kept doing your thing. Growing and growing. You were unstoppable.”
“I think that’s, like, bare minimum fetus achievement.”
“I don’t know. I just found it so amazing. I still do. Look at you.” I glance up in the mirror, meeting her eyes, and for a moment, we’re both silent. When Mom finally speaks, it’s almost a whisper. “Everyone was always telling me how fast it goes. It used to piss me off.”
“Ha.”
“Like, it was always some random lady in the grocery store. You’d be flailing around, pitching a fit, and every single time, some jerk would just have to come up and tell me I’d miss it one day. Oh, she’ll be off to college before you know it. Enjoy these moments now. I was like, cool story, fuck you.” She twists a lock of my hair around the curling iron. “But they were so right.”
“It happens.”
“I just can’t believe you’re leaving.” Mom blinks, a little too quickly.
“You realize I’ll be an hour and a half away, right?”
“I know, I know.” She smiles sadly. “But you know what I mean.”
I wrinkle my nose at her. “Don’t you dare cry.”
“Why, because you’ll cry?”
“No way. Never.”
Mom laughs softly. “It’s going to be so weird here without you, Leah.”
“Mom.”
“Okay, I’ll stop. I don’t want you sobbing over me and ruining your prom aesthetic.”
“My prom aesthetic.” I roll my eyes, smiling.
Mom smiles back. “You’re going to have so much fun tonight, Lee.”
“It’s going to be weird.”
“Even if it’s weird. I loved my weird, messy prom night.” She shrugs. “Just embrace it. That’s what I did. I remember looking in the mirror and deciding my prom was going to be suck-free, even if it wasn’t going to be how I imagined it.”
“Well, mine’s going to suck.” I make a face at her in the mirror.
“But why? It doesn’t have to.” She leans forward, resting her chin on my head. “Just promise me you won’t overthink this.”
Then it hits me, like a kick in the crotch. “Fuck.”
Mom meets my eyes in the mirror, brows raised. “You okay?”
“I am such an idiot.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“I don’t have a bra.”
“Mmm.” Mom tucks a final strand of hair in place and smiles. “Not bad, right?”
I mean, yeah, Mom knocked it out of the park. I don’t know how she did it, but my hair is smooth and wavy, swept back on the sides, with little soft pieces hanging down around my cheeks. Of course, the fact that I’m still in pajamas makes it seem like my head and body belong to two different people, but I guess it will look good with the dress.
Except for the fact that I don’t have a fucking bra.
“I need something strapless.”
“You don’t have a strapless bra?”
“Why would I have a strapless bra?”
Mom’s mouth quirks. “Because you have a strapless dress?”
“Okay, it’s not funny. I’m kind of freaking out.”
“Lee.” She rests her hands on my shoulders. “We have a few hours until Garrett gets here. We can buy you a bra.”
“From where?”
“From anywhere. How about Target? Go throw on some jeans.” She grabs her purse. “Let’s hit it.”
Except the car won’t start.
“Nope,” Mom says as the key clicks uselessly. “Not today, Satan.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Hold on.” She nudges the steering wheel and opens and closes her door. “I’m trying again.”
Still nothing.
She looks vaguely panicked. “Should I blow on the key?”
“That’s not a thing, Mom.”
“Oh, come on,” she mutters, smacking her hands down on the steering wheel. “Of all fuckin’ days.”
“Okay, please don’t say fuckin’.”
She shoots me a self-conscious glance. “I thought we liked cussing.”
“We love cussing. But we say the fucking g. I don’t want to hear that apostrophe, Mom.”
“I can’t believe this,” she says.
I nod. “It’s a sign.”
“Of what?”
“That I should stay home.”
Now Mom’s rolling her eyes. “You want to miss prom because of a bra?”
“Because of the lack of a bra,” I correct her. “And because I have no way of getting a bra.”
Mom doesn’t respond—she just digs into her purse for her phone. Then she taps into her favorite contacts.
“Who are you calling?”
She ignores me.
“Oh hell no.” I make a grab for the phone, but she yanks it out of reach. “Are you calling Wells?”
No response. She presses send.
“Please tell me you’re not asking Wells to buy me a fucking bra.”
“Why not?” The phone starts ringing.
“Because it’s a bra.”
“So?”
“So, that’s disgusting.”
“What, a bra? You’re grossed out by bras?” I open my mouth, but she just keeps talking. “Man, if you can’t handle bras, wait till you learn about boobs—hi, honey.” She cuts herself off, and her whole demeanor changes. I picture Wells on the other end of the call, phone mashed up to his tiny ear.
I smack her in the arm, and she turns to me and winks. “Leah and I need a favor.”
I shake my head frantically, but Mom turns away, ignoring me. “So, the car just died, and we just realized that Leah doesn’t have . . .”
I hug my arms across my chest.
“. . . something she needs,” Mom continues. Then she pauses. I can just barely hear Wells’s voice through her speaker. “Right. Not till five.” She pauses again, and then laughs. “Yeah, totally dead.” Then she nods and flicks her eyes toward me, smiling. “Thanks, hon. Love you.”
Okay, first of all: ick. Second of all: oh, fudge. So, Mom and Wells are at the love you stage. That’s pretty fucking vomity.
She ends the call and turns toward me. “He’ll be here in fifteen minutes to jump the car.”
“Great.”
“Uh, you’re welcome.” She raises her eyebrows.
I blush. “Thanks.”
And it’s weird. We don’t move from the car. We don’t even unbuckle our seat belts. It’s like someone paused the universe. Everything smells like hair spray, and I have that key-change, offbeat feeling again. That little itch in my gut. Mom drums on the steering wheel, humming.
“So are you and Wells secretly engaged or something?”
Her hands freeze. “What? Where did that come from?”
“It’s just a question.”
Mom sighs. “Leah, no. I’m not secretly engaged.”
“Are you getting engaged?”
“Um.” She smiles. “Not that I know of.”
“Would you say yes if he asked you?”
“Leah, back up a minute. Where are you getting this?”
“It’s just a hypothetical question.” I tuck my feet onto the seat and turn toward the window. Everything’s sun-soaked and green. Stupid perfect April day.
“If he asked me today? I don’t know,” Mom says. “Marriage is a big thing. I know I love him a lot.”
I look at her. “Why?”
“Why do I love Wells?”
“I get the money thing, obviously.”
“Um, excuse me?” Mom’s eyes flash. “You know what? That’s really hurtful, and it’s not true.”
“Then I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?”
“I mean, you’re not marrying him for looks,” I say, and before the words are even out of my mouth, I regret it. I feel heat rise in my cheeks. I don’t know why I’m so mean.
“Okay, seriously?”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
“You know, I happen to think he’s really handsome.”
“I know. I get it. I’m a jerk.”
“You don’t think he looks a little like Prince William?”
“Uh, isn’t Wells like fifty?”
“He’s forty-two.”
“Still.”
“Like a slightly older, balder Prince William. I’m just talking about his face.” She pokes my knee. “You totally see it.”
Fuck. I totally do. And even his name is so on point.
“So this whole relationship is literally a thing because of your lifelong Prince William fetish?”
“Okay, it’s not a fetish. I just think he’s sexy.”
“You did not just call Prince William sexy.”
“I did. It had to be said.” She smiles, almost sadly. “You know, you’d probably really like him if you gave him half a chance.”
“I don’t have to like him. I’m graduating, remember?”
“Oh man. Do I remember.”
And something about the way she says it makes my heart catch in my throat. I stare at the glove compartment, hugging my knees. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“Sweetie, it’s fine, you know? It’s just—”
She cuts herself off as Wells pulls up next to us in his Beemer. He looks extra golfy today, in a tucked-in polo shirt, and now I can’t unsee the Prince William thing. So, that’s a little disturbing. He pops open the hood of his car, and Mom pops ours open beside it. Car foreplay for this car booty call. Mom slides out of the driver’s seat and fishes a set of jumper cables out of the trunk.
I watch from the passenger seat as they clip their little alligator mouths somewhere in that mess of engine and battery parts. A moment later, Wells starts his car, and Mom leans in through the driver side door.
“Lee, try twisting the ignition.”
I do, and it roars to life immediately.
“So, that’s it?” I ask. “You fixed it?”
“Well, it started, which is good, but we’ll need to keep the battery running for a while. Why don’t you hop to the back?”
“Why?”
“Because Wells is going to drive us to Target, so he can keep the car running while we run in.”
“Oh. Okay.” God. Prom errands with Wells. But I guess he technically did just come to rescue us, and technically, I should be grateful. Or something.
Mom fills Wells in on prom gossip the whole way to Target. She remembers every detail I’ve ever mentioned. “Okay, Abby dumped Nick, so that’s the main thing, but there’s also Morgan creating issues,” Mom explains. “And Garrett has a crush on Leah.”
I lean forward. “That’s hearsay.”
“But,” Mom plows on, twisting around to smile at me. “I think Leah likes someone else.”
“Mom.”
Holy shit. Like, she better not be implying what I think she’s implying.
“I’m just saying.” She grins. “It’s going to be an interesting night.”
As soon as we pull into the parking lot, Mom’s phone rings.
“Oh, crap. I need to get that.” She answers it, scrunching her face at me apologetically, and mouthing, work.
Awesome fucking timing.
For a minute, Wells and I just sit there, while Mom nods and says, “Uh-huh. Okay. Right. Uh-huh.” She gropes in her purse for a pen and scribbles a few things down on the back of a receipt. “Well, I really—oh. Oh. Okay. No, no.” She shoots me a look that’s half guilty, half frantic. “Mmhmm,” she murmurs. Then she unbuckles her seat belt and twists back to meet my eyes.
I look back at her and raise my eyebrows.
“Yes. Okay. Absolutely,” she says into the phone. But she nods her head pointedly at me. Then she passes me her credit card.
“I’m supposed to do this myself?” I ask quietly.
She shrugs, gestures at her phone, and then points at the clock on the car’s dashboard. Which has been broken for years, but I get what she’s saying. Garrett will be at our house in two hours, and I’m wearing jeans and not a trace of makeup.
“I’ll go with you,” says Wells.
“Um. That’s not necessary.”
“It’s actually perfect. I need to pick up a birthday card anyway.”
I shoot Mom a look that says are you fucking kidding me. She shrugs and tips her hands up, eyes twinkling.
So isn’t this magical. I’m bra shopping with Wells.
He shoves his hands in his pockets as we walk through the parking lot. “So, what is it that you need?”
“An item of clothing.”
“An item of clothing?” He shoots me a confused smile. “Am I supposed to guess?”
“No,” I say quickly. Fuck my life. “Just. It’s a bra.” For my boobs, Wells.
“Ah.”
Now I can’t even think straight. Maybe my brain is boiling. Maybe that’s a thing that happens when you achieve peak mortification.
We step through the automatic doors, and the first thing I see is a bag display: giant canvas zipper totes and faux-leather purses and, already, a summery display of woven beach bags.
“Oh no.” I smack my forehead.
“Everything okay?” Wells asks.
“I don’t have a purse.”
I mean, technically, I do. But the only purse I own is a ratty canvas thing I bought three years ago from Old Navy. I can’t bring that piece of shit to prom.
“Okay. We’ve got this.” He nods eagerly. “Would any of these purses work?”
“And shoes. I don’t have shoes.”
Okay, I’m honestly starting to freak out, because this really feels like a sign now. No bra, no shoes, no purse, car battery dead, Mom occupied. Universe, I hear you loud and clear. I shouldn’t have even considered going to prom. I should go back home and watch HGTV, and return the dress as soon as the mall opens tomorrow.
I just wish. I don’t know. I wish I were the kind of girl who remembered things like bras and shoes and purses. It’s like there’s a prom gene, and I’m missing it. And I guess it makes sense. I can barely be trusted to dress myself, normally. No surprise I’m a hot mess and a half when it comes to this crap.
“This is cool,” Wells says, holding up a little clutch. It’s made of gold fake leather, and it’s shaped like a cat’s face, and even I have to admit it’s adorable.
I bite my lip. “How much is it?”
He checks the tag. “Oh, it’s just twenty dollars.”
“Welp. Never mind.”
“Leah, I can cover that.”
I laugh. “Yeah, no.”
“I mean it. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”
God, I really hate this. Literally, the last person I want buying me shit is Wells. He’s not my stepdad. He’s definitely not my dad. And it’s just weird and uncomfortable, and I feel like a sellout.
But. I don’t know. I also don’t want to carry a canvas bag to prom.
“I’m going to go find a bra,” I say quickly, eyes starting to prickle. This is all so ridiculous. And honestly, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to do this without Mom. I don’t know anything about strapless bras. I don’t know how they’re supposed to fit. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to try them on. I end up circling the racks in the lingerie area, probably looking like a little lost turtle. Finally, I grab the cheapest one in my size, but even the cheapest one is almost twenty-five dollars. For a bra I’m probably going to wear one time. And if I’m paying twenty-five dollars for a bra, there’s no way I can buy shoes. I’ll have to wear my sneakers. Just some giant ugly-ass sneakers. Now I’ll really have a prom aesthetic.
I may be feeling slightly hysterical. Slightly.
Wells is already holding a Target bag when I find him at the self-checkout. He smiles and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, I know you didn’t want me to, but I got the cat purse.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s just, I thought you’d probably try to push back, and then I’d insist, and we’d go back and forth, and I know we don’t have a lot of time. So.” He bites his lip. “If you don’t want to use it, that’s totally fine.”
“Oh. Um.” I stare at the bag.
“I would have grabbed some shoes, too, but I didn’t know what size.”
“That’s . . . fine. That’s really cool of you, Wells.”
It’s weird. I’m used to saying his name with a sarcastic kind of emphasis, a tiny vocal eye roll. Saying Wells without that little bite feels strange and incomplete.
I pay for the bra with Mom’s card, and we head back to the car. But when we get there, Mom’s still on the phone, so Wells and I lean against the trunk, side by side.
“So, are you excited?” he asks.
“For prom?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I never went to mine.”
“I never thought I would.”
“Just don’t forget to bring a camera. Your mom’s going to want pictures.”
“My camera?” I mean, of course Wells would suggest that. As if I’m going to roll into prom with a giant old-timey camera and a tripod. Maybe I should skip the camera altogether. I’ll just bring some oil paints and a fucking easel.
“I guess you’ll have your phone for that, huh?”
“Uh, yeah.” I smile.
He smiles back. And for a minute, we just stand there.
“Thanks for the purse, by the way,” I say finally. I scuff my shoe on the asphalt. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I was happy to.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” I say, blushing faintly. Because apparently I’m not capable of thanking people without making it awkward. Wells probably thinks I’m ridiculous, getting so flustered over a twenty-dollar purse. Twenty dollars is probably nothing to him. He probably uses twenties as toilet paper.
But Wells just shakes his head. “I know this kind of thing can be really uncomfortable. I used to hate receiving gifts.”
“Me too.”
“Even if I knew the person could afford it. I just didn’t like feeling like I was getting a handout.” He looks at me, and it’s as if he’s reading my mind. “I didn’t have a lot of money growing up.”
“Really?”
He nods. “Yeah. I was kind of the poor kid in the rich neighborhood. My friends all had houses, and we were in this tiny little apartment. I don’t think some people even realize there are apartments in the suburbs.”
“Wow.”
“Wow?”
“I just. I don’t know. I totally figured you were kind of a country club kid.”
“Well, I was, in a way.” He smiles. “I was a caddy.”
“That is . . . a golf thing, isn’t it?”
“Nailed it,” he says. And it’s strange. I feel lighter. Like maybe this nerdy dude can stick around if he wants. Maybe Mom could use a bootleg Prince William to distract her. I guess it’s either that or haunting the aisles of Publix, warning the baby moms how fast it all flies by.
Here’s the thing, though: no one ever warns the babies.