Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts by Courtney Hamilton

know. I’ve been invited to it. It’s Megan’s baby shower.”
    My 42-year-old cousin, Megan, from my father’s Episcopalian side of the family, had gotten pregnant by her boyfriend of eight weeks. There were rumors of a joint christening/‌wedding once Megan could fit into a wedding dress again. My Aunt Katy, delighted to finally have a grandchild, had chosen to forget that ten years ago she would have disowned her daughter on the spot after receiving news of her skanky behavior.
    “Well, I want to make a statement,” said Julia.
    “What statement would that be? That you dress inappropriately for all occasions without discrimination?” I said.
    “You’re no fun.”
    “Look Julia, put the dress down and let’s have dinner. I’ll go shopping with you and help you find a great dress.”
    “I don’t want dinner. If you’re not going to let me have the dress, I’m leaving.”
    “Then it’s time for you to go.” I opened the door.
    “Bye-bye,” I said. “Drive safely.”
    She walked out the door without a word.
    I knew my mother.
    I made a mental note to keep the doors locked, round-the-clock, for the next month.
    “Okay, Abyss, Velveeta mushroom soup and chicken?”
    I gave up on the mushroom soup-chicken part of the equation and cut myself a big wedge of Velveeta.
    “Put the Velveeta down,” said Jennifer, whom I had speed-dialed.
    “It’s only a small piece,” I said.
    “I told you not to let her see the dress,” said Jennifer.
    “She showed up at New Year’s just as I was getting ready for a party. I’m hoping it will be different this time,” I said.
    Jennifer sighed. “It won’t be,” she said. “What did she want for New Year’s? To party with you?”
    “A dress,” I said.
    “Did you let her in?”
    “What could I do? She said she needed to go to the bathroom. Only she made a little detour into my closet and got something.”
    “What?”
    I sighed. “My little black dress.”
    “Noooo!” said Jennifer. “Not the black dress. You searched for months for that.”
    “Yes,” I said. “It’s gone.”
    “And you let her have it?”
    “What could I do?” I said. “Wrestle her for it?”
    Not that I hadn’t tried.
    When she walked out of my closet with my little black dress, I walked over, grabbed it, and said, “No way.”
    “But I need to look special,” said Julia.
    “You look special every day of your life, just the way you are,” I said.
    “Don’t try that psycho-babble nonsense on me,” said Julia. “Remember, I’m the wife…”
    “He’s dead,” I said. “He died 28 years ago.” When I was seven.
    “All right, I
was
the wife of a board-certified psychologist,” said Julia. “I know all those stupid, self-esteem tricks.”
    “You’re not getting the dress,” I said. “Now leave. I need to finish getting ready for this New Year’s party sometime before next year.”
    “Hmmm, nice dress,” said Julia, looking a little too closely at the dress I was wearing.
    “Don’t even think about it,” I said.
    “Red is not my color.”
    “It’s time for you to go.” I opened the door. She gave me a dirty look.
    “Bye-bye,” I said. “Drive safely.” I closed and locked the door and then went into my bathroom to blow-dry my hair. When I came out, the little black dress was gone. I forgot. She had used her emergency set of my keys to come back into my apartment and steal my dress.
    A Post-it note was on the hanger.
    “I took it. I’ll have it cleaned.”
    On January 3, I had the locks on my doors changed.
    After two weeks she called. “Ah c’mon, it’s just a dress,” was left on my voice mail.
    After four weeks, she attempted to break into my apartment on a Sunday morning as I was having my morning coffee with Abyss and a copy of
The New York Times
. I heard her fumbling with the lock. Then she started pounding. “You had the locks changed? Open the door, right now.” She gave up after five minutes.
    On March 1, I received an email from