How? It just is. Hoity toity people like Philippe probably think they have a God-given right to kiss any woman they want.
I rub my forehead harshly, trying to force away the imagery of him kissing her. My attempt fails, and I stand up to take the strawberries back to the fridge.
The door to the bathroom opens behind me, and I whip my head around, then still.
Siena’s wearing a long-sleeved black dress that brushes the floor. The dress sparkles subtly while her dark hair, pulled back and sitting low on the nape of her neck, shines in the late afternoon light coming through the windows.
“What?” She rubs her red lips together.
She’s nervous to go out with Philippe. This is worse than I thought. And she’s wearing lipstick. Is that good or bad? I feel like lipstick could be interpreted either way—an excuse not to kiss someone, or a sort ofcome hitherinvitation to think more about her lips.
I pick my jaw up off the floor. “Nothing. I just didn’t know people dressed up to go to McDonald’s here.”
She shoots me a look and drops some lip gloss into the little clutch she’s holding. “You should get out more.”
I chuckle and play with the strawberry carton in my hands. I can’t help but notice she didn’t tell me where they’re really going. The dress she’s wearing says this isn’t just any restaurant. That dress says a lot of things, actually, and I want to blind Philippe before he can try to interpret them all.
“You should probably shut that,” Siena says, nodding at the fridge. The door is wide open, entirely forgotten in my slack-jawed admiration. “Electricity isn’t cheap here.”
“Eh.” I set the carton on the shelf even though my eyes beg me to look at Siena again. “What’s a few bucks to King Philippe, right?”
There’s a knock on the door, and our eyes meet.
Siena pulls her phone from the clutch. “He’s early.” She drops it back in and readjusts her dress—another nervous gesture.
She holds my gaze for a second, and if my eyes could talk, they’d sayDon’t go. But I bite my tongue—something I got really good at last night—and she turns toward the door, so either she didn’t get the message, or she ignored it.
“Wait,” I say.
She stops, looking at me with an unreadable but intent expression.
I point to her back. “The tag.”
“Oh, shoot.” She looks over her shoulder at the little white rectangle poking out of the hem at her back. She reaches an arm around, but it’s in an awkward spot.
“I got it.” I pull the tag out of the dress, purposelynotnoticing how my fingers brush against the soft skin of her back, then take the paper and the plastic line between my fingers.
“Just be careful,” she says, trying to watch what I’m doing over her shoulder.
I could say the same to you.In fact, I’m thinking she should wear that cardigan tonight. But it’s not my job to police what she wears or doesn’t wear. I want her to be happy, and if going out with Philippe in this dress makes her happy, so be it.
I hold the plastic line tightly in my left hand, then tug on the tag with my right until it pops off.
The front door opens, and Madi’s face peeks in. Her eyes widen as her gaze comes to rest on us.
Realizing how close Siena and I are standing and how it must look with me right behind her, I hold up the tag. “Got it.”
But Madi’s not looking at me. “Oh. My. Gosh. You arestunning.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning and showing off my jeans and t-shirt.
“Notyou,” she replies.
Siena runs her hands down the dress. “Are you sure you’re okay with me wearing this? I think I’m too big for it.”
Madi and I both shake our heads at the same time, and the gesture brings Madi’s focus to me.
I freeze. I shouldn’t be thinking about how well Siena’s clothes—or Madi’s clothes—fit her. “I’ll just throw this tag away.” I head to the garbage can, putting distance between Siena and me.
