“Janie, whoa, slow down…!” I heard Niki laughing on the other end. “I meant, tell me everything about the dress problem. You said you need a completely amazing wedding dress, and I think I heard something about Marie Antoinette in there somewhere. What’s wrong with your dress?”

“It’s very sensible and plain and, I thought it was what I wanted, but it’s just all wrong.” My eyes flickered to the back of Stan’s head. He seemed to be very dedicated to keeping his eyes on the road this afternoon.

“Oh, girl. No woman should ever wear something sensible on her wedding day. That’s not allowed. It’s the one day you get to dress like a princess and blow the knickers off your prince.”

“I didn’t think I wanted that when I picked out the dress, but now…I feel completely ridiculous admitting this, but—I totally completely want to blow the knickers off my prince.” My brain was at war with…my brain. My heart and my body were ambivalent. It was all brain-on-brain brawling. “It doesn’t make any sense!”

“It’s tradition, girl. You can’t half-ass tradition.”

“What can I do? I’m in Boston. The place where I got my dress has nothing off the rack in my size, at least they didn’t the last time I tried dresses on. Either they’re too big or too short. You might remember that I’m very tall.”

Niki was silent for a moment. I heard her shift her phone to the other ear, and then I heard nails clicking on a keyboard in the background. “Did you say the wedding is in five days?”

“It’s Saturday. So, technically it’s more like four and a quarter days.”

More silence. More keyboard clicking.

Then, “Ah, ha! I can help you! Have you ever heard of Donovan Charles?”

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “I think so….”

“He’s a fashion designer, a big deal—or he will be very soon. His haute couture shop is in Boston, and I know for a fact that he has several wedding dresses in house. Some are from his latest collection, and they’re fab-bu-licious.”

“Fabulicious?”

“Yes, definitely. He might not sell one to you, but he’ll let you borrow it for a day. I’m sure of it. Let me call him. I’ll do it now.”

I opened my mouth to ask her whether she thought they would fit, or to thank her, or some other thought that hadn’t quite materialized, but she clicked off.

Several moments passed during which I held the phone to my ear. I was still caught in the forward inertia of our conversation; my mind hadn’t yet adjusted to the fact that she’d hung up or that she’d readily agreed to help me. But just as I was lowering it to my lap, it buzzed.

She’d texted me and, if I interpreted it correctly, it meant:

Donovan Charles was willing to help.

He was sending over some dresses to my hotel on Thursday morning at 11:00 a.m.

I needed to text her back with the hotel address.

Niki was amazing and wonderful.

Quinn had great taste in slamps.

CHAPTER 26

Quinn was banned from the hotel room on Thursday starting at 9:00 a.m. and for the next eight hours. I didn’t know how much time I needed to try on the dresses or if they would arrive promptly at 11:00 a.m.

I needed to be finished in time for dinner. We would all be congregating at a nearby restaurant around 6:30 p.m. It would be the first time Quinn and my father would meet.

I wasn’t nervous.

Weirded out was the most accurate description for what I was.

I hadn’t seen my dad in years. I didn’t know what to expect when Quinn and his parents met him. It all just felt very Twilight Zone-ish.

Add to this the fact that Quinn didn’t know he was banned from the hotel room, but Dan knew Quinn was banned and promised to keep it a secret. Furthermore, Dan promised me that he would keep Quinn out of the way for as long as possible.

I didn’t tell Dan the reason I needed Quinn out of the way. I didn’t tell anyone about the dress mess. This was for a few reasons.

First, I couldn’t be certain that I was going to like any of Donovan Charles’s wedding gowns. I’d looked him up online, and he seemed to love feminine fits reminiscent of the 1940s. This was good; I liked this style; this was encouraging. But I couldn’t find any pictures of his wedding dresses.

Secondly, even if I did like them, I had no idea if they would fit.

And, last, I still hadn’t come to terms with my desire to blow Quinn’s knickers off with a stunning wedding dress. I wasn’t the princess- gown-wearing ribbons-and-bows girly type.

At least…I didn’t think I was.

But Jem’s advice kept rattling around in my brain.

I decided not to dwell on this contradiction too much as it hinted heavily of an identity crisis.

Therefore, since I’d told no one, I was alone and waiting when I heard a knock on the door Wednesday at 11:00 a.m. sharp. I didn’t think twice as I ran to the door and pulled it open. I’m sure my face, at least initially, was a mixture of excited expectation.

Desmond, Quinn’s dad, stood in the doorway.

I was startled by his unexpected appearance and tried to rein in my surprise.

“Oh! Desmond…hi.”

“Hi.”

“I, um…hi. What’s going on?” I glanced down the hall behind him and saw Stan just outside my door.

“Can I come in?” Desmond asked.

“Oh, yes…yes, of course. I’m sorry.” I moved out of the way, gestured that he should enter. I thought about telling Stan to intercept the dresses, but I decided against it. If I re-routed the dresses, it would feel dishonest, like I was trying to hide something. Quinn’s dad wasn’t a talker and wouldn’t likely stay very long. My mind was reeling as I tried to remember whether he’d said he would stop by this morning. Had Katherine sent him to pick up something for the wedding? I had nothing.

With very little time to contemplate the best course of action, I merely shut the door and followed Desmond to the sitting area.

He walked to the coffee table and set a bag on top of it, and scanned the room. “Place is nice.”

“Yes. It’s a nice hotel. I like that they have large bathtubs.”

He gave me a very small smile. “Katherine likes big tubs too.”

“They’re excellent places to think.”

He narrowed his eyes at me in a way that reminded me of how Quinn looked right before he was about to tease me. “Do a lot of thinking, do ya?”

I nodded, because I did think a lot, but I said nothing else.

I wanted to tell him about brain usage and related myths, but decided against it. Quinn may have appreciated my random bouts of information, but I didn’t want to force his family to sit through it.

“What?” He gave me a sideways look. “Did I say something wrong?”

I shook my head. “No. Not at all. I do a lot of thinking. You are correct.”

His mouth tugged to the side and he hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his pants. “You look like you want to say something else.”

I shook my head, rolled my lips between my teeth.

He grinned. “Come on. Out with it.”

I’m sure my expression betrayed how difficult it was for me to keep from spewing the random information all over him, because my voice was tight when I admitted, “It’s weird. I’m weird. And I don’t want to bore you.”

“Tell me.”

I considered him for a split second, then let it out, “Okay, fine. You shouldn’t believe the myth that humans only use ten percent of their brain. Most people don’t consider the fact that the brain is only three percent of a human’s weight—on average—yet uses twenty percent of the energy.”

He lifted a single eyebrow. “Really? I’ve heard that, about people only using ten percent of their brain. It’s not true?”

“No. Not true. Some people attribute the durability of the misconception to Einstein; he said something along those lines when people asked him why he was so intelligent. I think he was just trying to make them feel better about their own stupidity and limitations—like, if they could tap into more of their brain then they would be able to understand higher-level concepts. The fact is, we use almost every part of our brain every day, maybe just not all at once. You get the brain you get, and Einstein was both blessed and cursed.”

“So there is no hope for stupid people?”

I paused, considered how best to answer this overly simplistic question. I was about to respond with a rephrasing of the question that would hopefully break the issue into several silos defining the types of stupidity and how one might rise above each.

However, before I could, another knock sounded on the door to the suite. I flinched, turned, bolted to the door and opened it.

Standing in the hall was a woman—a very, very stylish woman—dressed in a black business suit with red piping. Her clothes were stunning. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore matching black stilettos with a red triangle at the toe.

“Janie Morris?” She asked, lifting a markedly perfect eyebrow.

I nodded. “Yes. I am her—she. She is me.”

“Oh yes. You are quite lovely.” She smiled; her eyes moved up and down my body and came back to my face. “It’s too bad about the freckles. Photographers hate freckles.”