Chapter 206
Summer's POV
"This is bigger than my bedroom."
Mia stood in the doorway of my walk-in closet, her mouth actually hanging open. I'd shown her the living room, the kitchen, even my bedroom with its ridiculous California king bed, but somehow this—three walls of built-in wardrobes surrounding a velvet ottoman—was what finally broke her composure.
"I thought the grand piano was excessive," she added, stepping inside and running her fingers along the mahogany shelving. "But this? Summer, you could fit my entire apartment in here and still have room for a yoga studio."
I pulled open one of the wardrobe sections, revealing rows of dresses still wrapped in dry cleaning plastic. "I don't even wear most of these. Half still have tags on."
It was embarrassing, honestly. All this excess sitting unused while Mia probably wore the same rotation of outfits every week. But she didn't look judgmental—she looked fascinated, the way someone might stare at a museum exhibit.
"Okay," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "Let's find you something for the concert."
I started pulling dresses with purpose now. A black cocktail dress from Marc Jacobs that would photograph well under stage lights. A tulle gown from Marchesa that my mother had bought for some gala I'd refused to attend, too princessy for me but perfect for Mia's delicate frame. A red midi from Valentino. A vintage Chanel tweed set that had been a birthday gift from Victoria's business partner.
"This one," I said, holding up a midnight blue silk dress that caught the light like water. "This will look perfect with your flute. The color matches the concert hall's curtains, and it won't compete with the instrument for attention."
"I can't wear this," Mia protested, touching the fabric like it might disintegrate under her fingertips. "It's too expensive. What if I spill something on it?"
"It's just sitting here collecting dust. Come on, try it on."
Mia held the dress against herself and looked down skeptically, her expression shifting from wonder to resignation. "Summer, this is cut for someone with actual boobs. I'm going to look like a kid playing dress-up in her mom's closet."
"Oh please." I tossed a balled-up cashmere scarf at her head, which she caught with one hand. "You have a perfectly nice chest."
"I have a perfectly flat chest. There's a difference." She turned sideways in the full-length mirror and sighed dramatically, gesturing at the plunging neckline. "See? The fabric is just... gazing into the void. It's like the dress is disappointed in me."
I laughed so hard I snorted, which made Mia crack a smile despite her protests. "Okay, first of all, the void is being dramatic. Second of all—" I pulled open a drawer in the built-in vanity and produced a set of adhesive bra inserts still in their packaging. "—technology exists."
Mia picked up one of the silicone pads and squeezed it experimentally, her nose wrinkling. "This feels disturbingly realistic. Like, uncomfortably realistic. Should I be concerned?"
"Welcome to the world of pageant-girl illusions," I said, ripping open the package for her. "Half the girls at St. Jude's Preparatory Academy are running on these and prayer. You think Brooke Martinez got that perfect silhouette naturally? She's got these in three different sizes depending on the dress."
She slipped behind the changing screen—an antique silk panel my mother had bought at auction—and when she emerged, the midnight blue silk draped over her frame like it had been tailored specifically for her narrow shoulders and long neck. The inserts did their job, creating the gentle curve the dress had been designed for. Mia stared at herself in the full-length mirror with genuine surprise, turning slightly to catch different angles.
"Oh my god," she whispered, cupping her hands under the newly created shape. "I have cleavage."
"You're welcome."
"No, seriously." She turned left, then right, then pressed her palms together in front of her chest with exaggerated wonder. "Where have these been all my life? I could've been using these for prom. For homecoming. For literally every formal event I've ever attended where I looked like a prepubescent boy in a dress."
"In my underwear drawer, apparently waiting for their true purpose," I said, grinning at her transformation. "Which was making you look like the flute goddess you are."
Half an hour later, she'd moved from "I can't" to "Okay maybe just this one" to trying on everything I pulled out. An hour after that, we were both laughing hysterically as she twirled in an Elie Saab gown that was absolutely ridiculous for a school concert—layers of embroidered tulle that made her look like she was about to accept an Oscar—but looked stunning anyway, the kind of stunning that made you forget practicality existed.
I squeezed into a backless Versace number that I hadn't worn since last spring's charity gala, and immediately felt the fabric strain across my chest in a way it hadn't before. "Ugh. This fit better last year."
Mia looked over from where she was examining the Elie Saab's beadwork. "It still fits. It fits more, actually. Your boobs are literally trying to make a break for it."
"Shut up." I tugged at the neckline uselessly, trying to create more coverage that simply didn't exist in the design. "I swear my body just keeps redistributing everything. Like, my weight hasn't changed, but suddenly nothing fits the way it used to."
"Must be nice to have that problem," Mia said drily, gesturing at her own borrowed cleavage. "Mine are more like permanent no-shows. They RSVP'd to puberty and then ghosted."
I threw the Marchesa tulle gown at her face, which she caught with a muffled laugh.
By four o'clock, my bedroom floor looked like a designer boutique had exploded—tulle and silk and sequins scattered across the Persian rug, shoe boxes stacked haphazardly by the door, jewelry draped over the back of my desk chair. We collapsed on the bed, surrounded by the evidence of our fashion show, and I felt something loosen in my chest that had been tight for weeks. This. This was what being seventeen was supposed to feel like. Not the pressure, not the performances, not the constant calculation of every social move—just this easy joy of being young and ridiculous with someone who didn't expect anything from you.