thing. You just made a mistake.
But Dillon…there was the heartbreak. Because Dillon had been a seventeen-year-old jerk too, drunk and stoned and sleeping across the hall. He should have known better. He should have waited for Sam to leave. He should have locked the door behind his friend. He should have stayed to watch over her. That was what older brothers did, right?
Hers hadn’t. Somehow, it didn’t matter that Dillon had beaten Sam within an inch of his life the next day. It didn’t matter that Sam went to prom two months later with a scar under one eye and a noticeable limp. Sitting in that chilly doctor’s office in Manhattan four years later, scarred by a disease that would eventually take the one thing that made her a woman, Maggie had needed someone to blame. She’d only been with one guy, ever. Sam. The disease was his fault. The operation could be traced back to him. Back to that single night, when her stepbrother’s best friend stepped across the threshold of her bedroom.
But since Sam had drowned at the local swimming hole the night of his high school graduation, and since Maggie couldn’t bear to look in the mirror and blame herself, the only person left to blame was Dillon. So she did.
*
“What about this one?” Maggie stumbled out of the dressing room, poured into a black dress so tight she could barely breathe.
Beverly DuPree, owner of the only upscale clothing boutique in Hart’s Falls, shook her head. Willowy, square-jawed, somewhere between forty and sixty-five, the woman wore flared black pants and a matching turtleneck sweater. Three thick gold chains hung around her neck.
Maggie glanced into the three-way mirror. “Too tight, right? I look like the hooker who’s supposed to jump out of the cake.” She tugged at the strapless bodice, trying to find an ounce of space in which to draw a breath. “What else do you have? Anything that might have the comfort of a sweatshirt? Or a pair of pajamas?”
Maggie tripped back into the cubicle and grunted as she did her best to squirm her way out of the black sheath. She recalled the only other time she’d gone to a black-tie event. Right after college, when I was living in New York and working for Delilah’s Design Factory . She’d agreed to a blind date with Delilah’s nephew, an up-and-coming broker from the East side, thinking it might be fun to mingle with the rich and famous. Instead, she’d ended up spending most of the night standing by the hors d’oeuvres and watching her date flirt with the bartender. The male bartender, by the way . The pomposity and pretension of the entire evening had sent shivers clear through her and she’d sworn never to waste her time like that again. She couldn’t believe she was about to sell her soul and do it again.
She slung the sequined dress onto its hanger and pulled on her tank top and jeans. Barefoot, she headed back into the showroom and made her way to an aisle they hadn’t yet tried. She pawed through the size 2’s, hope fading as slinky black dress after slinky black dress passed through her fingers. If these were her only choices, she might as well wear the turquoise monstrosity left over from her second cousin’s wedding.
“What about this one?” From the far corner of the dress shop, Bev beckoned.
Maggie stood on tiptoe and peered around a mannequin. The shop owner pointed to a swatch of deep green poking from between the blacks and navies on the rack. “This one. It’s perfect for you. I should have thought of it before.”
Crossing two fingers in her mind, Maggie walked over. She parted the dresses, pushed the others away, and took a look. Wide, sleeveless straps slid to a vee-neck that was neither offensive nor prudish. At the waist, darts of fabric gathered and puckered, then smoothed to a long skirt that swayed just a little at the bottom. And the color! Emerald satin rustled in her hands, a dark green like the forest after a rainstorm or pine trees at dusk. The material
But Dillon…there was the heartbreak. Because Dillon had been a seventeen-year-old jerk too, drunk and stoned and sleeping across the hall. He should have known better. He should have waited for Sam to leave. He should have locked the door behind his friend. He should have stayed to watch over her. That was what older brothers did, right?
Hers hadn’t. Somehow, it didn’t matter that Dillon had beaten Sam within an inch of his life the next day. It didn’t matter that Sam went to prom two months later with a scar under one eye and a noticeable limp. Sitting in that chilly doctor’s office in Manhattan four years later, scarred by a disease that would eventually take the one thing that made her a woman, Maggie had needed someone to blame. She’d only been with one guy, ever. Sam. The disease was his fault. The operation could be traced back to him. Back to that single night, when her stepbrother’s best friend stepped across the threshold of her bedroom.
But since Sam had drowned at the local swimming hole the night of his high school graduation, and since Maggie couldn’t bear to look in the mirror and blame herself, the only person left to blame was Dillon. So she did.
*
“What about this one?” Maggie stumbled out of the dressing room, poured into a black dress so tight she could barely breathe.
Beverly DuPree, owner of the only upscale clothing boutique in Hart’s Falls, shook her head. Willowy, square-jawed, somewhere between forty and sixty-five, the woman wore flared black pants and a matching turtleneck sweater. Three thick gold chains hung around her neck.
Maggie glanced into the three-way mirror. “Too tight, right? I look like the hooker who’s supposed to jump out of the cake.” She tugged at the strapless bodice, trying to find an ounce of space in which to draw a breath. “What else do you have? Anything that might have the comfort of a sweatshirt? Or a pair of pajamas?”
Maggie tripped back into the cubicle and grunted as she did her best to squirm her way out of the black sheath. She recalled the only other time she’d gone to a black-tie event. Right after college, when I was living in New York and working for Delilah’s Design Factory . She’d agreed to a blind date with Delilah’s nephew, an up-and-coming broker from the East side, thinking it might be fun to mingle with the rich and famous. Instead, she’d ended up spending most of the night standing by the hors d’oeuvres and watching her date flirt with the bartender. The male bartender, by the way . The pomposity and pretension of the entire evening had sent shivers clear through her and she’d sworn never to waste her time like that again. She couldn’t believe she was about to sell her soul and do it again.
She slung the sequined dress onto its hanger and pulled on her tank top and jeans. Barefoot, she headed back into the showroom and made her way to an aisle they hadn’t yet tried. She pawed through the size 2’s, hope fading as slinky black dress after slinky black dress passed through her fingers. If these were her only choices, she might as well wear the turquoise monstrosity left over from her second cousin’s wedding.
“What about this one?” From the far corner of the dress shop, Bev beckoned.
Maggie stood on tiptoe and peered around a mannequin. The shop owner pointed to a swatch of deep green poking from between the blacks and navies on the rack. “This one. It’s perfect for you. I should have thought of it before.”
Crossing two fingers in her mind, Maggie walked over. She parted the dresses, pushed the others away, and took a look. Wide, sleeveless straps slid to a vee-neck that was neither offensive nor prudish. At the waist, darts of fabric gathered and puckered, then smoothed to a long skirt that swayed just a little at the bottom. And the color! Emerald satin rustled in her hands, a dark green like the forest after a rainstorm or pine trees at dusk. The material
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