16
I spend the majority of the day preparing for the evening-gown competition, which is set to begin at six o’clock.
Ginny assures me it’s the easiest of all the prelims. I’m not required to say anything, twirl anything, or bare any part of my body that hasn’t been seen in public since I was a small child. All I have to do is glide up and down the runway in a fabulous gown. No problem, I think.
Naturally, I’m wrong.
First, Ginny informs me that I can’t wear the pageant shoes I’ve finally managed to master. Mostly. I still live in fear that I’ll tumble off them and fall to my death in a bedazzled pile of glitter, chiffon, and chandelier earrings. But my feet haven’t actively bled in twenty-four hours, which sadly, is a major win.
“I don’t get it. Why can’t I wear these?” I say, stepping down from my nude patent leather frenemies.
“The heel isn’t high enough. The gown is long. You need another inch of platform. Minimum.” She hands me a silver sparkly pair of platform stilettos nearly identical in style to the ones I’ve just discarded.
But the new ones are definitely taller. “If I put these on, my updo will be in danger of hitting the ceiling.”
I’m only half joking. As soon as I returned from my awkward breakfast, Ginny sat me down and got to work on my hair. Countless bobby pins and a full can of hair spray later, I’m sporting an artfully created ballerina bun that somehow manages to look glamorous and a little bit messy all at the same time. Ginny calls this look “elegantly just got out of bed,” and even though the description might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, I get the reference. I look like a woman in a perfume ad—barefoot in a ball gown, accompanied by a George Clooney look-alike in a tuxedo with his bow tie hanging loose around his neck.
I wonder idly if any of the beautiful couples in those advertisements ever got busy in a small, paddle-powered watercraft. You know, swan boat and chill.
“Your face is beet red.” Ginny frowns at me. “And the skin on your chest is all splotchy, like it gets when you’re anxious. What’s wrong with you?”
I’m terrified, that’s what’s wrong with me.
It’s been a while since I’ve been intimate with a man. A long while. After Adam and I broke up, I spent months wondering if he’d been pretending I was Ginny every time we made love. The thought filled me with such shame and loathing that I completely shut down in the intimacy department. It’s been months since I’ve let myself contemplate kissing a man, much less getting undressed in front of one.
Until yesterday in the ice closet, anyway.
Now I’m contemplating doing all sorts of things with Gray. Something about him makes me feel safe. It doesn’t make sense, particularly since he thinks I’m my sister.
But somehow he also seems to see through the charade. He noticed me when I was still Charlotte. Every time I close my eyes, I see the way he looked at me in the stairwell on that very first night.
Later, Hermione.
Those words, coupled with the appreciation in his gaze when he said them, make me believe I can do this. I can trust Gray Beckham.
Can’t I?
“No.” Ginny meets my gaze in the full-length mirror on the back of our bathroom door and shakes her head.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” I say quietly.
“This dress.” She aims a critical gaze at the crimson mermaid-style gown I’ve somehow managed to squeeze into. Ginny had it custom made especially for the Miss American Treasure pageant. “It’s all wrong.”
I agree. I feel like a bad Jessica Rabbit impersonator. The gown isn’t me at all . . . but since when does that matter? For the most part, Charlotte Gorman has ceased to exist.
“Maybe it will look better once I put on the shoes,” I say.
It can’t hurt. The hem of the dress is pooled on the floor. If I try to take a step, I’ll surely trip over a mass of red velvet.
“Nope. It’s just not right on you.” Ginny unzips the back of the gown. “Take it off. I’ve got a few other options we can try.”
I step out of the gown while she pulls an assortment of glittering frocks from the closet. One by one, I try them on. First up is an off-the-shoulder violet gown, with a voluminous tiered skirt that swallows me whole. There’s no way I could walk in this thing, much less glide. I’d get all tangled up in the skirt in a matter of seconds.
Ginny crosses her arms. “Next.”
I wiggle into a white beaded sheath dress that would probably look sophisticated on Ginny, but again makes me feel like a child playing dress-up. My sister sighs and points to the pile of dresses on the bed.
The next one is covered in feathers that tickle my nose. I sneeze four times in rapid succession. I take it off without bothering to wait for Ginny’s opinion. It’ll never work.
“How many evening gowns did you bring?” I ask as she pulls another one from the stack.
She narrows her gaze at the dress in her arms and flings it back onto the bed.
“It’s always good to have extras. In pageantry, you have to be prepared for the unexpected—spills, split seams, and all that.”
“Does it really matter?” I glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. We’re running out of time. Believe it or not, this impromptu fashion show is taking hours. “Didn’t you say I’m pretty much a lock for the finals since I won the talent competition?”
She gives me an odd look, and I correct myself. “I mean you’re a lock for the finals.”
Sometimes I forget I’m not in this for the long haul. There’s only one preliminary event left after the evening-gown competition tonight. Tomorrow afternoon is the onstage-question portion of the pageant prelims. Each contestant will reach into an acrylic box and choose a question at random. She’ll then have two minutes to articulate a coherent response. All of this takes place on the fly, with zero preparation time. The question is read aloud and boom, the clock starts ticking.
Ginny might be better by tomorrow. It’s hard to say. Most of the lingering swelling in her face is a result of the nose injury I inflicted during my ill-fated baton lesson. Last night, she spent an hour in front of the mirror with a makeup brush and three different shades of contouring powder in an effort to slim down the damage. It didn’t end well.
But I know without a doubt that when the finals roll around, I’m out. There’s a rest day between the end of the prelims and the finals, followed by an entire day of rehearsal for the big production numbers that take place during the televised pageant finals. Think Sandra Bullock dressed as the Statue of Liberty in Miss Congeniality.
In short, my twin still has two and a half days before she takes the stage in the finals. She’ll be ready, come hell or high water.
“You can’t think that way,” she says. “The talent win definitely helps. But making the finals is never a certainty. At this point, you could still get knocked into the bottom half. It would just take something really big.”
Like being exposed as an imposter. Or getting caught in flagrante delicto with one of the pageant judges in a swan boat.
“We need to find a dress.” I swallow. The evening gown suddenly seems vitally important, not only to my success in the prelims, but to my very survival.
“Oh, wait! I think I’ve got just the thing.” Ginny brightens and makes a mad dash for her suitcase. “It’s a gorgeous dress. I’ve been dragging it around from one pageant to the next, but I’ve never worn it because it’s not really my taste.”
She’s rummaging through the bag, tossing things aside. I’m pretty sure I see a one-piece swimsuit fly through the air, contrary to Ginny’s insistence that she only packed bikinis. It takes monumental self-restraint not to bring attention to her blatant lie, but I manage to keep my mouth shut. After all, I haven’t exactly been a pillar of honesty lately.
“Ah! Found it.” Ginny lets out a little squeal as she pulls mile after mile of sheer pink organza from the suitcase.
I’m skeptical. It’s a lot of fabric, and despite the volume of all that chiffon, it doesn’t seem to actually cover anything. I can see every detail of Ginny’s hands straight through it, including her pastel lavender manicure.
“Don’t give me that look.” She holds up the top of the gown, and it’s undeniably gorgeous. The delicate chiffon is gathered in a diagonal ruching pattern, allowing the faintest glimpse of the structured corset beneath. “The corset is fully lined. I’m not going to send you down the runway naked. Trust me.”
Trust me.
I’ve heard that a lot this week, and somehow I feel less inclined to put my blind faith in my twin right now than I did a few days ago. But what choice do I have?
I hold out my hand. “Give it to me. I’ll try it on.”
This time, my sister is right.
The gown isn’t at all similar to any of Ginny’s other dresses. Actually, I’ve never seen anything like it. Ever. Which is pretty remarkable considering I’ve spent most of my life beauty pageant-adjacent.
“This is . . .” I shake my head, unable to continue. The pink gown is special. Its innocent color, combined with a thick layer of handcrafted flowery tulle rosettes along the hem makes the chiffon’s sheerness seem sweet rather than sultry. I feel like I’m wearing something made of spun sugar. I feel . . . beautiful. And yet, somehow, like Charlotte instead of Ginny.
“I don’t know what to say.” I press my fingertips to my mouth so Ginny can’t see the tremble in my lower lip. This isn’t like me. I don’t get emotional over fashion. Unlike most brides, I didn’t shed a tear when I tried on my wedding gown.
But this feels different. I’m not sure why, but it does. A lump has lodged itself in my throat and my hands are shaking. I want to take this feeling and bottle it, so that when this charade is over and everything falls apart, I can remember that I didn’t just do it for Ginny. I also did it for me, and there were moments it was worth it—in spite of whatever reckoning is coming my way.
“Keep it,” Ginny whispers.
“What? Why?”
“Because it looks like it was made for you. It’s beautiful, but it’s not right for me. I look like I’m trying too hard when I put it on. On you, it’s perfect.” She smiles.
I catch her gaze in the mirror and for a second, it looks like she might cry. “You look stunning as hell and at the same time, sweet like cotton candy. All sugar and spice and everything nice.”
If she only knew.
The evening-gown competition passes in a blur. I don’t win, but I feel magnificent onstage. The pink chiffon swishes around my legs, soft as rose petals, and for once, I have no trouble whatsoever making eye contact with Gray as he sits at the judges’ table.
He freezes when he sees me. The air between us is electric, and every muscle in his body goes tight. Rigid. He doesn’t even write down a score in his binder until the judge beside him prods him to do so.
I suck in a breath, do my final twirl, and glide toward the stage exit.
Don’t look back.
My fingernails dig into my palms.
Don’t do it.
I look. The expression I’m aiming for is a coy peek over my shoulder, one last smile for the audience. But my gaze flits immediately to Gray. He’s the only judge still watching me. All the others are sitting with their heads bent, scribbling on the pages of their judge’s books. The last thing I see before I disappear behind the thick velvet curtain is the corner of his mouth quirking into a secret smile.
This is a dangerous game we’re playing.
Someone is going to notice all our subtle communication. Whether it’s my parents, the judges, the Miss American Treasure officials, or one of the pageant girls, it’s going to happen . . . unless I put a stop to things and quit before someone gets hurt.
The trouble is, even if I cut off all communication with Gray, someone will get hurt.
And that someone is me.
I’m breathless by the time I take my place in the wings and watch the last contestants take the stage. Only seven states remain. While they float before the judging panel in a variety of beaded, bedazzled, bespoke gowns, I try and force myself to believe whatever is happening between Gray and me is harmless.
But it’s not.
As much as I want to believe we’re not hurting anyone, we are. This pageant is important to a lot of people, and now that I’ve experienced it myself—now that I’ve gotten to know these women—I can’t dismiss it quite as easily as I used to.
But I’m not really cheating, am I? And Gray and I are consenting adults. My attraction to him has nothing to do with the pageant. I’m certainly not planning on meeting him at the swan boats because I’m angling for a higher score.
Somehow I doubt my fellow contestants would see it that way.
Fellow contestants? Oh, so now you’re actually one of them?
The exquisite dress I’m wearing is going to my head. I’m just a temporary substitute. None of this is real. Why can’t I seem to remember that?
“You look amazing,” Lisa Ng says to me while we’re in the wings. “You’re a shoo-in for finals.”
“Thank you.” I beam. “So are you.”
She gives me a hug. Everywhere I turn, girls are embracing one another, and even though everything I’m wearing right now is borrowed—the sash, the gown, the shoes, and in a way, even the face—this moment is mine. It belongs to me and it feels as real as the pounding of my heart does when I slip out of the ballroom and push through the resort’s glass double doors, onto the veranda.
Back in our hotel room, my twin is waiting for me to return and give her the play-by-play of the evening-gown competition. Dad and Susan are probably there too. They want to take us out for dinner tonight someplace festive. I haven’t bothered to make another excuse why Ginny and I can’t be seen together, because I’m going to be a no-show.
I have no idea how I’ll explain my absence. I can’t think about that right now. My twin and our misguided charade is the furthest thing from my mind while I tiptoe through the moonlight toward the swan boats. I am a Brontë heroine, caught in a moment of weakness, stumbling toward a hopeless mistake.
A sultry breeze rustles the palm trees and whips my diaphanous gown so that the skirt floats behind me like a dandelion puff.
Make a wish.
I do. And when I reach the faraway dock, my wish is there, waiting for me with a smile on his lips and a look in his eyes I know I’ll never forget. It’s a look of reverence. Of pure, unabashed longing. It’s the way that Heathcliff probably looked at Catherine on the windswept moors, minus all the brooding and tragic revenge.
“You came,” he says quietly.
“I did.”
He comes closer to cup my face in his warm hands and rest his forehead against mine. My pulse is racing, and when Gray brushes the pad of his thumb along my lower lip, my breath catches.
“What are we doing, Hermione?” he whispers.
If he’d called me Miss Texas, I might have been capable of walking away. But he didn’t. He called me the name that can only belong to me, and so I stay. I stay, and I don’t wait for him to take the lead. I’m tired of waiting, tired of holding back, tired of hiding all the time.
“We’re making magic,” I say, and then my mouth is on his and his hands are in my hair and he’s kissing me with a passion I’ve never known before.
It’s raw, aching, and honest. And even though this man doesn’t even know my name, I’ve never been more myself, more genuine. I’m still not Meg March or Jane Bennet. I’ll always be a Jo or a Lizzie, no matter what kind of dress I wear or how I style my hair. But that’s okay, because for once, I feel like the heroine of my own story.
It’s taken pretending to be someone else to make me realize who I actually am. And when I give myself to him, I’m no longer trapped in that blurry place where I’m never sure where Ginny stops and I begin.
It’s only me.
I am myself.