Shopping with Alex has never been a particularly rewarding experience. At least not for me. For Alex, I imagine, it’s like shopping in a fantasyland with a fairy Godmother waiting in the wings to make sure everything fits right, nothing bulges in the wrong places, and the correct sizes simply poof out of thin air.
Alex is one of those people who pretty much looks good in everything. She was a junior model for a local clothing boutique in Eastbrook when she was twelve. They paid her in clothes. When news of this broke out at Eastbrook Middle School, her stock skyrocketed.
I, of course, eventually received all of these free clothes as hand-me-downs but by then, they seemed to have lost their shine. Even though I wore them in the same combinations as she had and paired them with similar shoes and accessories, for some reason it didn’t have the same effect as when Alex would show up to school in one of her hand-picked ensembles. People would gather around, touch the fabric while making squirrel noises. I can’t remember anyone ever making squirrel noises about anything I’ve worn. Or any kind of noises for that matter.
Things just tended to sparkle on Alex.
She made the clothes, not the other way around.
To be honest, she could have dressed in a wardrobe provided entirely by Kmart and received the same reaction.
So yes, shopping with Alex has never been a particular self-esteem booster for me. But after what transpired last night, it’s especially painful today.
Alex steps out of the dressing room in a gorgeous lace and silk gown. Her fifth dress this morning. This one is a strapless number that cinches above her left hip, the skirt cascading delicately to her feet like satiny milk being poured in slow motion.
I take one look at it, then peer down at my juvenile polka-dotted blue sundress, and polish off the rest of the complimentary champagne in my glass.
I knew it was a mistake to come here.
She stands in front of the three-way mirror, a scowl disfiguring her mouth.
The way-too-chipper saleslady (is there such a thing as a not chipper wedding dress saleslady?) stands behind her, straightening the train and sounding not too dissimilar to the sixth-grade girls who used to gather around Alex in the halls of the middle school. “Oh wow. Just wow. I cannot believe how well this fits you, Alex. You were born to wear a wedding dress, weren’t you? My, my, my, what precious little hips you have and that scrumptious waist!”
I think about my own waist. Wondering if I can remember anyone ever describing it as “scrumptious.”
Nope. Not so much.
And then suddenly I’m seized by a flash of Grayson’s hand on me. Chilled by the ice. Running hungrily down my chest, clutching at the skin around my waist. Then both of his large hands were encircling me, his fingers pressing into the sides of my stomach, leaving passionate indents on my skin.
“Well,” the saleslady is yammering, “I’ll tell you, I would give my firstborn for that waist.” She leans in conspiratorially to Alex. “Don’t tell my daughter I said that!” And then breaks into a laugh that would scare even a hyena. “My dear, I am just speechless!”
All evidence to the contrary, I think, helping myself to the open champagne bottle on the coffee table in front of me and filling my glass to the very top.
Alex catches my eye in the center mirror. “Lia, what do you think?”
“Gorgeous,” I confirm, trying my best to infuse the word with some kind of emotion.
Once again with feeling!
“Gorgeous,” I repeat. But it still sounds like it’s being spoken by a Star Wars droid.
Alex frowns back at her reflection. “I don’t know.”
“What’s not to know?” the saleslady whinnies. “It’s breathtaking!”
I catch Alex’s subtle eye roll in the mirror and have to hide my smile behind a sip of champagne.
“It’s not it,” Alex decrees with finality in her tone. “Unzip me, please.”
Surprisingly, the saleslady doesn’t argue. “Well, I have plenty of others,” she says, tugging gingerly on the zipper. “I’ll go fetch some divine choices.”
Alex shimmies out of the dress, not even bothering to retreat into the dressing room. The shop is deserted apart from us, but anyone passing by on the street could easily get an eyeful.
She tosses the dress over a chair and flops down on the small sofa beside me in only her strapless bra and nude thong, grabbing her champagne and taking a long sip.
Although I warn my eyes not to do it, I can’t help but rove. Up her long, slender legs, over her flawless, flab-free thighs, across her smooth, flat belly (that somehow magically manages to look concave even when she’s sitting down), and finally landing on her round, buoyant breasts, peeking over the top of the bra, looking like two perfect scoops of butter pecan ice cream...minus the pecans.
Alex and I share many similar features. We both have blue eyes and hair the color of coffee with too much milk. We’re approximately the same height, we wear the same size shoes, same size bra, and are even relatively the same weight. But for some reason, Alex always seemed to carry all those attributes better than I did. Like some kind of optical illusion.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was so sick and fragile as a baby. Or perhaps it’s her unwavering confidence or ability to pick out the more flattering clothes. But as I try not to stare at my sister’s body, I can’t help but wonder why any guy—Grayson or otherwise—would ever pass up the opportunity to be with her.
Which only confirms my suspicions that last night was a fluke. A mistake not to be repeated. And certainly not to be reflected upon.
Because there’s no way Grayson would have disappeared up those stairs last night thinking, “Well, I certainly have been missing out.” More than likely he was congratulating himself on picking the hotter sibling. He verified his selection. Like when you buy a new computer and then see it for twenty bucks more at some other store. You pat yourself on the back and commend yourself on your excellent shopping skills.
Was that all I was?
A test? A quick dip in some other lake to confirm that the water isn’t more swimmable elsewhere?
The realization leaves me feeling incredibly sad. Like a small fissure is opening up in my heart, letting hope spill out droplet by tiny droplet.
I don’t know how Grayson could have not compared us in his mind. He had to have taken notes, made assessments. Maybe not in the heat of the moment. Maybe not while his rock-hard body was crushed against mine and his tongue was flickering against my nipple like a wild, glorious flame, but certainly after. After the rush of excitement died down. After he climbed back into bed next to Alex and was reminded of what he had. What he’s always had.
Alex sighs next to me. “I don’t know, Li. I’m starting to think that wedding dresses are like sushi. You simply can’t find anything decent outside of Manhattan.”
“Why are you shopping for one here, then?”
She shrugs. “Because I wanted to do it with you.”
The guilt swoops back over me like a tidal wave, threatening to drown me.
God, I’m a crappy, crappy sister.
Here we are shopping for my sister’s wedding dress and all I can do is sit here and lament about how her fiancé thinks she has a sexier body than me.
I wash down my disgust with a large swig of champagne.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she says, resting her hand casually on my leg. “It means a lot. Especially since Mom...” her voice wavers and I watch her bite back her tears, turning her head and scratching at her ear.
I put my hand on top of hers and give it a squeeze. “I know. I’m happy to do this with you.”
Once she gets her emotions under control, she turns back to me and flashes me a glassy-eyed smile.
“I think you should at least try on a few more,” I tell her. “I drank almost that entire bottle of champagne.” I nod in the direction of the saleslady, who is humming to herself on the other side of the store as she plucks dresses from the rack. “I’d hate for Rainbow Bright over there to think we’re only here for the free booze.”
Alex lets out a jovial laugh. It’s one thing I’ve always been able to do: make her laugh.
It’s amazing how fast you forget about the important stuff like that.
She nods and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Love you, Natalia-lia.”
I swallow a massive, growing lump in my throat. It tastes sour and bubbly. Champagne mixed with betrayal.
Even though my tongue is thick and swollen with remorse, I manage to get out a quiet “Love you, too.”