Letters She Wrote | Outer Banks

𝐱𝐱𝐯𝐢. 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬

[ xxvi. midsummers ]

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WILLA DEVERAUX NEVER WORE her hair straight.

Granted there were many things that she did not typically ever do when she was not faced with an approaching summer ball.  Midsummers had crept up quickly over the town of Kildare and the shimmering event was all that anyone could talk about for nearly the entire month of July. For that, Willa hated July. She already could not wait for August, when her world might finally begin to settle down again.

But for now, Willa was lost in a whirlwind of pompous glamour and fervent preparation. Seemingly her entire physique had been altered to accommodate this grand and special evening meant to celebrate the wealthy and adolescent generation that was set to one day inherit the riches of the island. After hours of erasing her knotted curls and the deepened bags under her sage green eyes as she sat beneath the blinding lights of her mother's vanity, Willa looked like she was ready for a movie premiere rather than a simple summer ball. She half-expected that there would be a line of paparazzi waiting for her red-carpet debut to the highest courts of the Figure Eight elite families. But that would just be silly.

And as if this night were not already going to be silly enough.

Willa thought that the entire existence of Midsummers was all ridiculous.  She hated all of it.  She was disgusted by her dress most prominently.  She had despised it when she had been forced to wear it for her first altering and she despised even more now, even though it now clearly fit her better. The shade of her dress reminded Willa of her mother's favorite bottle of sangria but despite how much she hated the off-purple color, the gown adamantly hugged Willa in all the right places and the reflecting golden and amber bedazzles that covered her entire torso made her shine bright like a diamond. Her dress then flowed down in gentle waves around her ankles and, as she anticipated, there was a provocative thigh slit that crept dangerously close to revealing more than just her leg, but she was no longer phased by it. She no longer cared for the other kook daughters and mothers and grandmothers that may deem her a slut for daring—and succeeding— to pull off such a show-stopping and scandalous dress.

Because Willa knew that she looked good. She did not feel beautiful, no, but she knew she would make an impression and that was seemingly all that was supposed to matter when it came to the midsummer ball.

She also knew that her scabbed and bruised knees would make any perverted head that turned her way, hoping to sneak a peek, hastily look in another direction.

Oh, and dare she mention the gloves?

Clearly, considering they did not even match the shade of her dress, the gloves were a last-minute addition to attempt hiding the mangled aftermath of Willa's bruised and gashed wrist. Maren had forced her daughter to wear the uncomfortable silky garments that cinched around her mid-forearms and made her palms wet with sweat. Willa hated them almost as much as she hated the golden heels she was wearing, and she was not sure what she had wanted to cut off more—her hands or her feet—by the time she had been forced to leave the sanctuary that was her bedroom.