The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Georgia

“I don’t know what Eloise will do about this,” Mom says from inside the dressing room. “I don’t even think she has his name.”

I turn the page of my book and sigh.

Halcyon is one of the nicest boutiques in Nashville, and my mother has no business shopping here. But did that stop her from twisting my arm to accompany her on a try-on excursion of outfits she can’t afford? No. No, it didn’t. I could’ve put my foot down and stayed home, but that would’ve given me too much time to think.

And God knows I’ve thought it through a million times.

“I’m sure she’ll figure it out,” I say, forcing my mind away from my date with Ripley and back to the task at hand—saving my mother from spending money she doesn’t have on clothes she doesn’t need. “Don’t fall in love with the black dress. You don’t need it.”

“You’re so negative.”

“I’m realistic. I saw the price tag.”

“Let’s not rule anything out until we see it on me.”

I roll my eyes and curl up in the oversized orange chair in the corner. Then I go back to my book.

Halcyon’s private fitting areas are divine. Each pod, as they call them, has a sitting area, dressing room, and a stocked refreshment center with fancy seltzer waters and various snacks. And it’s quiet. If a personal shopping assistant didn’t check on you every ten minutes, I might try to hang out here. It gives bougie library vibes without a kids’ play center. It doesn’t get much better than this.

“I told Eloise that burning was never good, but she’s in her fifties. She should know that,” Mom says.

“Sounds like she fucked around and found out.”

“Georgia! Mind your mouth. We’re in public.”

I set my book on my lap and laugh. “You’re talking about one of your friends contracting a burning sensation from a college-aged kid in Florida, and I can’t say the word fuck?”

“Not in public.” She groans. “This zipper is too tight.”

“I told you to size up.”

She gasps. “I’m not a size ten, Georgia Faith.”

“It’s just a number. Besides, every fabric and every designer are different. An eight isn’t always an eight.”

“If I were your size, maybe I would say that, too. But I’m not. Have a little empathy.”

I sigh and go back to my book. Just as I get to the part I’ve been waiting for—when the hero realizes she’s always been the one for him—the dressing room door flings open.

“Have you been listening to me?” Mom asks, fixing an earring.

“Honestly? No.”

She runs her hands down the little black dress and turns to a full-length mirror. “I don’t know why you brought a book, anyway.”

“I’m trying to feel things, Mom.”

She grins over her shoulder. “If you’d take my advice and start using men for what they’re good for, you could feel a lot of things.”

“Seriously, Mother?”

“Maybe you need to go to Charity Club with me. We can give you some pointers.”

I snort. “With all due respect, I prefer my sexual encounters not to include burning sensations.”

“That’s just Eloise. Now come here and help me zip this thing up.”

I stand and make my way to my mom.

“Did you see Josie Kipper died?” Mom asks, sucking in as I slide the zipper up her back.

“I did not.”

“It was on Social this morning. I looked everywhere to see what she passed away from, but it didn’t say.” She exhales, and the zipper stretches but thankfully doesn’t pop. “There should be a rule—if you die or get divorced and you’re going to put it on Social, then you have to state the reason.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” she says, twisting and turning to see all angles of herself. “What do you think? Does it make my hips look big?”

“Your hips are fine. It makes your bank account look small. That’s the problem.”

She gives herself one final look before spinning to me. “The frugal gene is the only thing you got from your father.”

Her golden eyes meet mine before she scampers back into the dressing room.

I turn toward the mirror, taking in my reflection. Everything I see—my auburn hair, the shape of my ass, and tanned skin—all came from my mother. But a lot I can’t see came from her, too. I notice more of it all the time. And, truth be told, that scares the shit out of me.

Every day that passes, I wonder in the back of my mind if I’m destined to become my mother. Will I wind up alone, bitter at the world, and hating men? Will I amble through life without clear direction because I’m too scared to let anyone close? Will I ever find my dream?

It’s a thought that’s been lingering heavily on me since last night. Something about the evening with Ripley brought it back to the surface. Maybe it’s because he’s so calm, cool, and collected. He has a career, a pathway, and enough confidence to carry him through any bump in the road. I might hate the good-looking fucker, but he does have his shit together.

It makes me want to have mine together, too.

It also makes me think of Ripley’s response about relationships.

“One of my brothers just got married and had a baby. Watching him with his wife and little boy has made me start thinking outside of myself. If I can find the right woman to build a family with, I’d love to be able to raise my children alongside my brothers.”

His siblings are all starting to settle down. I’ve overheard him talking about it when we’re hanging out with our friend group. And his best friend is getting married soon, and if Sutton has her way, they’ll have kids soon after. So was he serious when he told me he’s looking for the right woman, or was that a part of the act?

“Okay, you’re right,” Mom says, huffing through the door. “I’m not getting the black one.” She holds up an emerald mini skirt she tried on hours ago. “This one is a winner, though, right?”

“Yes. That one is on clearance.”

“Don’t say clearance. It makes me feel cheap.”

I roll my eyes, grab my book, and shove it into my bag before we exit our dressing pod.

“What about you?” Mom asks, fingering through a rack of halter tops. “Did you want to look for anything?”

“We’ve been here for three hours. If I did want to look for myself, the feeling would’ve passed.”

She frowns. “We can do a quick shop for you, if you want. Check out these tops.”

“Mom.” I laugh. “No. I don’t need anything, and I’m starving. Let’s go.”

“Now you’re making me feel bad.”

“Don’t. I only came to ensure you don’t forget who you are and start buying five-hundred-dollar little black dresses.”

She sticks her tongue out and places the green skirt on the counter. I leave her to pay for her item and wander toward the front of the store.

Bright afternoon sunlight floods the boutique. I stand beside a mannequin with a hot pink tube top and dig my phone out of my bag. One text alert awaits my attention.

My heart beats faster as I unlock the screen. I tell myself to stop it and remind myself this is part of the contract. Still, seeing a text from Ripley—one that’s not in the group chat—makes me nervous.

Which Ripley am I getting? Asshole Real Ripley or Fake Actor Ripley?

Ripley: Wear something warm.

Huh? My fingers fly across the keys.

Me: This winter?

Ripley: On our date, smart-ass.

Me: Why? What are we doing?

Ripley: *sighing emoji*

Me: Don’t *sigh emoji* me.

Ripley: Every time we’re together, I understand why you aren’t dating someone a little more.

I smile, glancing up to make sure my mother isn’t near. You walked right into this one, buddy.

Me: Someone a little more … what? A little more patient than you?

Ripley: *stares emoji* You know what I meant.

Me: A little funnier than you?

Ripley: *eye roll emoji*

Me: Ah, a little better at keeping up with me than you. Got it.

Ripley: Whatever you say, Peaches.

I growl. “I hate when you call me that.”

“Who?” Mom slings a bag over her shoulder and opens the door for me. “Who’s calling you names? I’ll fight them.”

My phone vibrates with another text, but I shove it inside my bag. No need to continue that conversation and ruin what’s left of my day.

“Mom, I have no doubt about that.” I laugh at the irony. “Are we done shopping now?”

“I mean, I guess.” We slide our sunglasses over our eyes and stroll down the sidewalk. “We could always grab an early dinner.”

My mind wanders back to Ripley’s text. Wear something warm. I have no idea what that means beyond the obvious, but why would I wear a jacket when it’s still warm enough for shorts? Is he trying to set me up? Does he want me to look ridiculous?

“Georgia?” Mom asks.

“What? I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

Her brows lift over the edge of her glasses. “You’ve been dazey all day.”

“Not sure that dazey is a word.”

“You know what I mean. Are you getting enough rest, honey?”

“I’ve sat on the couch all alone, eating white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies every night for the past two months,” I say. Just like Ripley said I was. I grip my bag at my shoulder and squeeze it, pretending it’s his throat.

“Maybe you should take a vacation day, and we can have a girls’ day together. Brunch, mani/pedis. Maybe the spa. We could catch a comedy show or something.”

My steps slow as a ripple of annoyance snakes through me. A vacation day? That would require a job, Mom.

She doesn’t know that I’m technically working for Canoodle Pictures, and she definitely doesn’t know, and won’t know, that I’m working with a Brewer. As far as my mother knows, I’m still unemployed.

Or as far as she should know because God knows if it doesn’t affect her personally, it’s not taking up space in her head.

She stops and waits for me to catch up. “What? Why did you slow down?”

“No reason.”

She glances at my fingers. “Oh. You just had your nails done. Okay, we can do something different.”

“Yeah, let’s do something different.” I force a swallow down my throat and start walking again. This conversation is headed toward employment, and it’s better if I get ahead of it and spin it. “Did I tell you I’m working for Sutton?”

“No, you did not.” She smiles, but it falters. “What happened to your job at the … where were you working?”

“For the last time, I was laid off months ago. We’ve been over this.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I keep forgetting.”

“Well, it’s not hard to remember.” I sigh in exasperation. “Anyway, because I was laid off from my last job and needed money, I took a position with Canoodle Productions. It’ll last a few weeks, but it pays well, and the perks are great.”

“What will you be doing?”

I race to devise a simple explanation and kick myself for not thinking this through before I brought it up. I don’t want to lie to her—not that she’ll remember any of this. But Nashville can feel like a small town, and one of her friends could see me somewhere with Ripley.

I would just have to hope they don’t know who Ripley is …

“Get this,” I say. “I’m filming a pilot for a reality show.”

“That’s so exciting!”

My smile grows at her genuine response. “It is, kind of. I get to go on dates that Canoodle pays for and film it.”

“With multiple men or just one?”

“Just one.”

We get to my car, so I unlock the doors, and we climb in. Mom nearly hits me in the head with her bag as she tosses it in the back seat.

“What’s he like?” she asks as I start the engine.

“Well …”

I look over my shoulder and back out of the parking space. My face is warm when I face forward, so I blast the air-conditioning in the car to hopefully hide my flush.

“He’s handsome,” I say, using adjectives to describe Actor Ripley and not Real Ripley. “He’s … smart. Charming.” I pause as I search for a word besides fake. “He seems very loyal.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. That’s exactly what you should be doing in your life. Dating around. Having fun. Meeting men and enjoying them. I love this for you, Georgia.”

“I’m really just helping Sutton out of a bind.”

“I think this is the spark you need to get off your couch.” She grabs the door handle like I’m about to wreck into the car in front of us. “I know you just dated … dammit. What was his name?”

“Donovan.”

“Yes, Donovan. He didn’t put any sparkle, any pizzazz into your life. Maybe this new gig you have going on will do that for you.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

We drive quietly toward my mom’s house. She plays on her phone, and I think about my lost pizzazz. I disagree with her in theory. I still feel pretty damn pizazzy. But I know what she means, and she’s not totally wrong.

Last night, I felt a little more alive than I have in weeks. So maybe this is the spark I need to propel me forward. This might be the path to dreaming again.

The sound of Ripley’s laughter streams through my ears. I can see his face, feel his hand on the small of my back, and his breath against my ear.

I shiver in my seat.

It might also be the path to a nightmare.

I guess time will tell.