Page 54 of Mark
But as I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the unflattering gown I’m being forced to wear, I know it’s not a myth. It’s a cruel punishment. The burnt orange dress is two sizes too small around my bust and even tighter at the thigh. The thick material clings to my skin from my chest to my knees. To walk, I will need to shuffle or be wheeled out on a bed or a crate. The material flares at the bottom, and if I look at it from the side, it looks like I have clown feet.
The heavy material and the long sleeves have already caused sweat patches to form beneath my breasts and under my armpits. The material has darkened in those areas so there is no mistaking it.
This dress was made for winter… or maybe even Halloween. No matter how I do my hair or how much makeup I apply, nothing will make this dress look okay. Not one thing. I even tried accessorising it with jewellery, which just made me feel frumpier.
A knock on my door pulls me from my pity party. “Go away!” I call out.
There is no way I’m going to this wedding dressed like a burnt orange.
“Are you not going to the wedding?” Mark calls through the door.
“Go away, Mark.”
“I like my life. If I go back up to the others, Hayden will know I didn’t take you to the wedding and Aiden will wait until the boat leaves port to throw me overboard. I’m not leaving without you, so you might as well come out.”
I shuffle over to the door, pulling it open with more force than I intended. “Why don’t you ever listen?”
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he asks, his nose scrunched up in distaste as he eyes me up and down. “Please tell me this is a joke.”
“This is the bridesmaid dress,” I growl, running my hand down the material. “I wish it was a joke.”
He pushes me inside, not knowing I can’t walk in the damn thing, and I go tumbling over, my body straight as a board as I go down. “Fuck!”
He catches me before I can land on the floor. “You dickhead. I can’t fucking move in this!” He starts laughing as he helps me up, my body still ramrod straight. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s pretty funny,” he teases, and bursts out laughing when I shove my hair from my face.
“Stop fucking laughing,” I demand, my voice choking on my words as emotion clogs my throat.
This is what I imagine rock bottom is.
There he is, in his white crisp shirt, beige shorts, and I’m in… I’m in a torture device. I feel humiliated in the worst possible way, and I know this is what Esther wanted. She wanted me to stand out and feel like a joke. This is worse than the time I started my period and all I had with me was a pad. I had been wearing shorts over a thong at the time, and when the pad came loose, hanging out of my shorts, I about died of embarrassment. We were at Glastonbury, so the only two pros about the whole thing was that nearly everyone was off their face, and I would never see them again.
“You aren’t wearing that,” Mark tells me.
“I don’t think I have a choice,” I grumble.
He cups my cheek, the touch gentle and caring, taking me by surprise. “She wants you to look like a fruit loop. The question is, are you going to give her one more thing she doesn’t deserve?”
My shoulders drop because he’s right. I hate that he is too. “No. But I don’t see how I can go dressed in something else without it causing an argument.”
“Tell her it was ripped,” he declares.
“But it’s no—” He tugs the sleeve, tearing it from my shoulder.
“Now it is.”
“Mark,” I cry, my eyes widening.
“Now go get into something that’s not going to cut off your circulation or make you look like you’re holding in a shit when you walk.”
“Okay.” I nod, unmoving.
His lips twitch, his hazel eyes crinkling in the corners. “You can’t get it off, can you?”
I shake my head, wincing. “No. I don’t even know how I managed to get it on,” I moan.
He grins and closes the door before making his way further into the room, standing behind me. “You owe me a shit ton of alcohol for this.” His fingers brush against my flesh as he undoes my zipper. “And there had better be cake.”