Mina leans against the wall, arms folded. “So, you gonna tell me what actually happened with Nash?”
I sigh. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it?” She pokes me in the shoulder. “What could be complicated? That boy’s got it bad for you.”
“I know,” I say, softly.
“And James?” She doesn’t say the rest, but it’s there, hanging in the air.
“He brought me cake on my birthday. Showed up at my door.”
“Did you let him in?”
“Just for a minute.”
She tilts her head. “Are you in love with him?”
“Who?” I ask for clarification.
“Either of them,” she replies, shrugging her shoulders.
I see the way my shoulders tense in the mirror, the way my mouth goes hard at the corners.
“I don’t know what I am,” I say.
Mina studies me, her expression softening. “Well, maybe you don’t have to know. Maybe just wear the dress, and see what happens.”
It sounds stupid, but also like the most reasonable advice she’s given me all year.
I change back into my clothes, the red gown draped over my arm as I head to the register, ready to spend a chunk of my bank account.
We leave the shop with a garment bag and two cups of lukewarm coffee. We walk for a while, neither of us saying much, the cold biting at our ankles. Mina squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. It’s enough.
When we part, Mina says, “Text me after the gala. I want a full report.”
“I will,” I promise.
She nods, gives a little wave, and melts into the crowd.
I walk the rest of the way home with the dress swinging at my side, thinking about the party, and the men, and whether it’s possible to have this gala end in anything but disaster.
***
The firm’s holiday gala is held on the top floor of the Beacon. They’ve rented out the ballroom and when I step inside, it’s like a different world: chandeliers glimmering like icicles, women in high-shine dresses, men in suits tailored to the point of aggression. The air is perfumed, the sound of glasses clinking and laughter floating over a string quartet.
Mina’s words echo in my head.
"Maybe just wear the dress, and see what happens."
So I do. The first thing I learn is that people look at you differently in a dress like this. The door attendant stares as I pass. The coat-check girl gawks as if she’s seen a ghost. Even the bartender gives me a small, evaluating nod. The red is almost louder than all the noise.
I find Nash before he finds me. He’s at the bar, waiting for the bartender to finish pouring his drink. His hair is swept back, his suit is new, the tie already loosened in defiance of the gala’s unwritten dress code. When he sees me, he freezes for a second, and just stares. Then he grins, slow, almost feral, as he abandons the bar to greet me.
“Avery,” he says, voice pitched low. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I had to see what all the fuss was about. You clean up well.”
He shrugs, eyes trailing down the length of my dress. “Not as well as you.” There’s a hunger in his gaze that isn’t just about the dress, but the space between us, the months of distance we’ve endured. “You want to dance?” he asks.
