Happenstance 3 (Happenstance #3)(11)
Author: Jamie McGuire

Julianne held her hand over her heart with an equally shocked look on her face. They were both watching as I walked out of my bathroom in my blush-colored gown.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror. “I can’t breathe,” I said.

“Is it too tight?” Julianne said, walking over to help. “It’s not even zipped yet.”

“No, I just…”

“You’re stunning,” Julianne said with glossy eyes. She lifted the zipper and then smoothed a russet stray that had escaped from the low side bun the hairstylist had pinned after spending half an hour curling my hair.

It’s for body, she had said. Trust me.

“Weston is going to pee himself,” Frankie said. She snorted, amused with whatever image was in her mind.

“No, because Sam mentioned Weston’s been to the bathroom at least four times since he arrived,” Julianne said.

“He’s nervous?” I asked.

“Terrified,” she said with a wink and a mischievous grin.

I turned one more time to make sure the see-through fabric on the back of the dress stopped high enough on my lower back, reaching back to feel the jewels I could reach.

“Stop,” Frankie said. “Nothing shows that’s not supposed to. No one could say a single negative thing about you in this dress.”

My lips were tinted pink and glossed, my lashes were long and black, and my cheeks blushed to match my dress. Julianne had had Emmy, a makeup artist from the next town, come over and spend an exorbitant amount of time painting my face. I looked like me but the cover model version of me.

“Well?” Julianne said. “Your Sam is downstairs with the camera. Veronica has hers, too. What do you say we head that way?”

“If I can make it down in these shoes,” I said, walking carefully over to her.

She took my hand and led me down the hall. Before I reached the top of the stairs, Julianne and Frankie passed by me and hurried down, so they could stand and witness my very possible tumble down the stairs. I gripped the banister and took the first step. I heard a few excited whispers until I came into view, and then there was a collective gasp. Julianne grabbed Veronica’s arm with excitement even though she was trying to snap pictures.

Weston looked up at me from under his brow, but he was unreadable. His expression didn’t move an inch. He just stared at me until I stepped off the last stair. When I joined him, he took a deep breath.

“Well?” Peter said, elbowing his son.

Weston opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, so he just shook his head.

Everyone chuckled around us.

Weston opened a plastic container and slid a wrist corsage over my left hand. The pink roses matched the boutonniere I would pin to his lapel. Sam handed me the boutonniere I’d picked up the night before. It was still cold from being in the refrigerator. The inside of the clear container had fogged in places, and the small droplets of perspiration matched the shiny beads that had formed near Weston’s hairline.

After dozens of pictures—inside, outside, inside again, with the parents, with each other, and standing by the white limo Weston had promised—I finally ducked my head and stepped into the vehicle. The driver, Louis, shut the door after Weston had settled in next to me.

“I’ve never been in a limo before,” I said, glancing around the interior.

The leather bench we were sitting on could fit maybe three people, but the bench seat opposite us spanned nearly the whole length of the limo. The dark tint on the windows blocked out the sun, and the rope lighting edging the ceiling turned every shade of color imaginable in a slow cycle. On the passenger side was a line of tumbler glasses and wine glasses sitting in cutout circles next to a bucketful of ice. I wasn’t sure what the driver had thought two high school kids would use the ice for.

To munch on?

“Me either,” Weston said.

“Really?”

He shrugged. “I took the Huttons’ convertible last year. It was too nerve-racking. This is much better.”

Last year, Weston had gone to prom with Alder. I had been working, but I had seen all the fancy cars and limos passing the Dairy Queen as they’d followed the main drag toward the high school. I recalled seeing Weston and Alder in that shiny white convertible. Neither of them had been smiling, and I’d wondered what the conversation would be like when sitting next to Weston Gates on the way to prom.

I was getting ready to find out.

“What was it like last year?”

“Lame,” he said with a smile.

“Then, why did you want to go this year?”

“Because you said yes.”

I pulled my mouth to the side and shook my head, picking at the fake white nail tips on the ends of my fingers. They were bugging me, and they had been since noon when Julianne had taken me to get a mani-pedi. It was a mystery to me why women would glue these things to their fingernails. My hands had been fairly useless for most of the day even though I’d asked for the tips to be cut down as short as possible.

“You are always beautiful, but I love the dress and everything else,” Weston said, squeezing my hand.

“I like your suit and tie.”

Both were black, but the suit was tailored, the pant legs fitting narrower than the slacks Sam or Peter would wear to work. Weston’s shaggy brown hair was a couple of inches shorter than usual, but it wasn’t gelled down and matted to his head like most of the boys would do when they played dress-up. It looked soft, and I sort of wanted to run my fingers through it.

Weston’s eyes settled on me with such affection that the blood beneath my cheeks caught fire. I wrapped my arms around his bicep and leaned against his side. His lips touched my temple once and then again.

“This isn’t the last time we’ll be in fancy clothes in the back of a limo,” he whispered.

I knew what he meant. He liked to allude to our future a lot, and although it both excited me and scared me to death, I was enjoying the quiet moment we were having. Our neighborhood wasn’t far from the high school, so we only had a few precious minutes alone before we would step out onto the sidewalk beside the auditorium in front of most of the town for the Grand March.

I gripped his arm tighter, trying to hold on to the moment.

Mistaking it for nerves, Weston covered my hand with his. “Relax. We’re just making a memory. All you have to do is enjoy it.”

“I already am.”

Too soon, the limo slowed, and the door opened.

Lisa Kahle’s dad held the door, a welcoming smile on his face. He was one of many fathers who were acting as valets, directing the limos and parking the various convertibles and even a combine for prom goers. “Come on out,” he said, stepping aside.