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with me tonight, I want to be damn sure I come when it happens.
    A cold shower takes care of my wanting and leaves my whole body with chills. My nipples are perky and hard when I slip the yellow sun dress over them. No bra tonight.
    I look down at my pathetic pair of tighty-whitie underwear, wishing I could go commando on the bottom too, but I can’t. That really sends the wrong message when you’re wearing a dress, not to mention when you’re on a first date.
    I reluctantly pull the underwear on. They are not so bad, really, I’ve seen girls at the gym wear these. Not the men’s variety—they were always some cute color and they were shaped for a woman’s hips. But these are not so different.
    The front sags over my pubic area and no matter how many ways I try to fold the waistband over, the ass sags too.
    I slip them off and pull on a pair of bikini bottoms. These are better, right? Except all my bikinis are held together with strings and this dress is a little form-fitting over the hips.
    I put the TW’s back on and sigh. That’s what I get for not making a packing list. And I have such cute underwear at home. Not the really expensive kind, but cute stuff.
    I let it go and blow-dry my hair instead. It’s one of my best assets. It’s a color that can only be described as honey-blonde. It’s thick and long, almost to the middle of my back, and perfectly straight. I love that. Some girls wish for curls when they have straight hair, but not me. I love the fact that I can let it dry naturally and it barely has any wave to it at all. And when I blow-dry it, it falls over my shoulders and down my back like a waterfall.
    My makeup bag is filled with all the usual, but I opt for a light dusting of powder and some eye makeup and that’s it. I’ve spent the entire summer bumming around in the sun on the cheap, so my tan is perfection. Why hide it with makeup?
    I smile at that and adjust my girls inside the built-in dress cups. My breasts aren’t overly large, but they are decent and they are natural.
    I slip my feet into my favorite pair of espadrille wedges and take stock in front of the mirror.
    Cute.
    I’ve always been cute. People never call me sophisticated or glamorous or beautiful. No. It’s always cute.
    But it could be worse. I could be plucky or perky.
    If someone calls you plucky, you’re a side character. That’s how they describe side characters in movies and books, right? The plucky sidekick.
    I admit, I’ve been Bebe’s plucky sidekick before. Many times. She’s definitely the stock image of glamorous and sophisticated. Her long hair is dark, wavy in all the right ways, and perfectly matches her dark eyes. Everything about her look says mysterious sexy woman you want to take home and fuck.
    A sigh escapes before I can stop it and a wave of self-doubt washes over me. Everything about my look says always a bridesmaid, always a sidekick, always an afterthought.
    Never a star.
    “Oh Jesus, Grace,” I chastise myself out loud. “Stop wallowing in self-pity. You’re young, you’re pretty enough, you scored a fantabulous job that’s waiting for you back in Denver, you have your own apartment—finally!—and you’re about to go on a date with a movie star while enjoying a free vacation on one of the most beautiful tropical islands in the world.”
    I kick my leg up and smack my butt with my shoe. “A reminder,” I tell the cute face staring back at me. “A reminder that life is what you make it. Happiness is a #Hashtag. You do not look like Bebe and that’s OK because you look like you .”
    Do I have this pep talk often?
    Yes. I admit I do.
    It’s not Bebe’s fault she’s beautiful. Plus, she’s my best friend. We’ve been best friends for years and never once has she ever made me feel inferior even though she excels at everything she does. She’s always supported me. She’s always been there when things were falling apart. She never once questioned my past choices and she stood by me