God knows, Milo’s too dumb to do it.

“Maybe,” he taunts.

“Then maybe I’ll think about letting you take me to the lighthouse party.” I swing my bag over my shoulder and dig inside, pulling out a wipe to clean the sparkly Greek letters off my cheeks.

He sits there, that confident gleam in his eyes like everyone wants to be near him, and he’ll wait for me to realize that.

“Come here,” he says.

Slowly, I lean in, giving him ninety, so he only has to give me ten and still look like the man. He kisses me, coming in again and again, his wet tongue grazing my bottom lip before he pulls back.

Holding back, so I’ll beg for more.

“You were amazing tonight, babe,” Milo slurs, squeezing Krisjen. “You both were.”

I hold Callum’s eyes as I stand upright again. “Thank you for coming.”

“I think they liked it,” he says. “You dancing for me.”

Yeah, okay. I smile, backing away toward the dress shop.

He shifts the car into gear, takes off, and I spin around, wiping off my mouth.

I hate kissing. Wet and slobbery tongue like a damn slug flopping around my mouth.

I pull open the door to Lavinia’s on the Avenue and stroll in, tossing the wipe out on the sidewalk behind me.

The streets of St. Carmen still buzz with foot traffic, cafés, and local hot spots swarming with people enjoying a quiet night with friends al fresco. The parade ended more than an hour ago, and even though it took us that long to get our gear cleaned up and Amy’s father to get the float clear of the gridlock, I’m still not done for the day.

I walk into the boutique, gowns displayed on mannequins as I cross the white carpet and pass the reception desk, my mother sitting in the lounge area.

She spots me. “Talk tomorrow,” she says into her phone.

“I’m here now,” I tell her, knowing she’s going to whine.

“I’ve been waiting over an hour.” She rises from the white-cushioned, high-back chair and sticks her phone into her handbag. “Call next time.”

I chuckle under my breath as I keep walking and she follows. “Like I can control how fast the parade moves,” I mumble.

Her chunky gold and pearl bracelet jingles as she enters the dressing area behind me, and I set my bag down next to the chair near the floor-length mirrors. I glance at her in the reflection, noticing my gold necklace draped across her tanned chest, visible in her flowing, deep V-neck blouse.

Coiffed golden hair, perfectly tailored black slacks that hug her three-spinning-classes-a-week ass, and squeaky clean, right down to her trimmed cuticles. My mother’s body hasn’t seen a carb other than champagne in at least twelve years. Pretty sure it’s in cryo-freeze at this point, simply relying on eggs and hair spray to animate.

In ten minutes, I’m on the riser in front of the mirror and wearing the debutante gown my mother had designed for me.

“Oh, Lavinia,” she says, holding her hands to her cheeks as she circles me. “You’ve outdone yourself. It’s exquisite. I love it. The detail…”

I look away from my image in the mirror, clenching my jaw as hard as I can to contain myself.

My mother rushes up to me as the older lady remains back, taking in her work and looking for any final fixes.

“Clay?” My mom urges me. “What do you think?”

I look down at her, struggling to keep my emotions from bubbling up my throat. I fold my lips between my teeth, about to burst. She doesn’t care what I think. She wants me to lie.

“It’s, um…” I choke on the words, a snort escaping. “It’s so beautiful. I’m speechless.”

And I can’t do it anymore. Laughter pours out of me as I take in the big, fat hoop skirt monstrosity in the mirror that makes me look like Scarlett fucking O’Hara, complete with puffed sleeves and some dumbass ruffle around the waist. I’m tempted to look for the stains of Lavinia’s tears of laughter all over the dress as she sewed this bullshit.

I hunch over, my stomach tight as I try to rein it in.

My mother glares at me.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, fanning myself. “My emotions are running wild. I’ve waited so long for this.” I plant my hand to my heart, recovering. “Lavinia, can you bring me some gloves and a pearl necklace? I need the whole picture. I’m so excited. Thank you.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle with a tight smile, but she nods, quickly leaving the room to fetch the accessories.

It’s not technically her fault. My mother approved the design.

The two of us alone, my mother steps up on the riser in front of me and twists the bodice, jerking it until it’s straight.

“I thought for sure I’d look like a cupcake,” I tell her, trying to catch her eyes. “Now, I almost wish I could say that I looked like a cupcake. You know that white stuff that spills out of a heroin addict’s mouth when they’re overdosing? That’s what I look like.”

She meets my eyes, her blue slightly paler than mine as she continues to yank at the dress. “You chose your homecoming gown,” she points out. “And you’ll choose your prom dress. The debutante ball is mine.”

I knew I should’ve gotten this over with two years ago when she wanted me to.

My body jerks as she situates the dress on me, and I stare over her shoulder and into the mirror. The back of her blonde head can easily be me in twenty years.

“You won’t be able to tell me from everyone else,” I say, coming as close as I can to begging her.

Every other debutante will be wearing white, and while the fabric is rather pretty on mine—lacy with pearl accents—the design is embarrassing. All the debutante dresses reek of Stepford.

“That’s kind of the point,” my mom says. “Tradition. Solidarity. Community. Unity. You’re coming out as a member of society, and a society functions on standards.” She smooths her hands down the fabric, pressing out any wrinkles. “You need to learn that rocking the boat puts everyone on board in danger.”

But that’s what boats are built for.

I sigh, not sure why I decided to let her have this one. I get my way because my mother picks her battles, and any battle with me that lasts more than three minutes is too much effort.

I could fight her on it. Maybe I still will.

“Do you need a Valium or something?” she asks.

I laugh under my breath and look away. Gigi Collins, everyone. Chairwoman, socialite, and school board president.

She puffs my sleeves, and then presses a hand to my stomach. “Hmm.”

“What?”

She purses her lips and walks around me, inspecting. “I was going to have her take it down to a four, but a six is already a squeeze, isn’t it?”

Heat spreads down my skin, and I clench my jaw.

Her phone rings from her bag on the chair, and she heads for it, waving me off. “We’ll leave it, I guess.”

Picking up her bag, she digs out her phone and answers it, walking past me and leaving the room.

I rub my eyes, listening to her chatter out in the waiting area about whether or not we should have a crêpe station for my school’s Easter brunch in two months.

Looking up, I stare at my huge skirt in the mirror, bored with this entire look that’ll live forever and come back to haunt the shit out of me in years to come.