of May. We know it’s a last-minute addition, but we couldn’t resist the recommendation letter we received in your honor.
Please accept this outfit, we were informed by Mayor Moore of your size. See you there.
Sincerely,
Culinary Con Founder, Ted Gehrig
Application? May 27th? That’s today! My eyes nearly bug out. Anger. Horror. Excitement. It’s infused in each intake of breath. How could he? How can I not accept? What if I’m given the chance to get into a top-five restaurant? It’s not like I could jump into this career otherwise because I’m considered inexperienced.
But Dad.
He did this.
With him, there are always strings attached. It’s not like he did this out of the kindness of his heart, because he has his own agenda. He always does. I remove the packing paper to see what rests inside. My eyes connect with black material, and I inwardly groan. It better not be a dress. Dad knows exactly how I feel about the lack of style dresses have.
Pulling it out, I notice the material is stiff. It’s going to make my skin itch, I’m sure of it. That, or it’ll crawl. Especially knowing my dad is basically selling me to the highest bidder—his own personal hooker for hire. I’ve heard of Culinary Con. It’s only for the highest-ranking chefs and restaurant moguls. You’re put into a drawing raffle, and the more tickets you buy, the largest chance you have of winning a chef. That means I’ll go to some dick who’s loaded, I’m sure. It’s fate, isn’t it? Probably someone my dad greased palms with. Because why the hell not?
I’m tempted not to show up, so my dad’s generous donation will go toward nothing. He deserves it. It’d show him right. But I don’t have a choice. I’m jobless. And homeless, as soon as Francis and Gray get sick of me.
I hold the dress up against my body in the mirror. It’s going to be a tight fit, showing off every little detail of my body.
Yay.
Rolling my eyes, I decide to take a shower. After two hours of blow-drying my hair and making it presentable, I start to wonder why the hell I’m putting myself through this. Another hour passes by the time I’m done with my face and wearing my outfit. My skin is already irritated with the restraining feeling of the expensive material. If jeans and a crop top were acceptable, I’d change out of this in a heartbeat.
Deciding to pack them in my bag as a just in case, I face myself in the mirror. I don’t look like me. I look like her. And her. And her. And her. All the women who live for this shit, the ones who have to work so hard to be pretty on the outside because their insides are dead. That’s exactly what I appear to be trying to do right now.
Knock. Knock. The door sounds out from beside me. For once, I closed it, knowing I’d be nearly naked the entire time I got ready. Opening to see who is on the other side, I spot Francis.
“Hey,” he says awkwardly.
We’ve got to stop meeting like this. It looks bad. Very, very bad. Not that I mind the company or the view, but it makes me look shady. Not to mention that if Gray walked in on the way he flirts, she’d probably kick me to the curb.
“Hi,” I reply lamely, not knowing what to say.
“How did dinner go?”
I cringe.
He stares at me as a million things go through my mind. It was bad, and that’s understating the disaster it truly turned out being.
“That well?” he jokes, but he doesn’t know the half of it. I bite my lip, holding back all the words I want to say but can’t. Then I realize how weird it must feel not to invite him in. We stand weirdly at the door, and I open it wider, waving him in.
“If a train wreck with a bazillion passengers is considered good...” A laugh escapes me at the euphemism, knowing it’s overdramatic. He chuckles at me, shaking his head. Tonight, he’s wearing distressed jeans, a button-up that’s rolled at the sleeves, and his hair is brushed back. I stare for far too long before he winks, throwing me back out of my headspace.
“Could be worse.”
“Really?” I ask, exasperated.
“Well, you could have your wife try to run you off the road, try to take your inheritance, and make your daughter believe you’re a drug-abusing dead man for fifteen years,” he explains simply