The dressing room's narrow. Mirror warped at the edges. I pull the dress over my head and—
Oh.
It fits like it was made for me. The fabric is soft, exactly as soft as it looked. The color makes my skin look sun-warmed instead of washed out. I run my hands down the sides, watch the way it moves. I look like myself. Not armor Scout or shop-gremlin Scout or broken Scout. Just—me.
When's the last time I felt pretty?
I step out and Maeve looks up from her phone. Something in her face softens.
"Perfect," she says.
"It's really nice, but I don't know if—"
"We're getting it." She's already moving toward the register.
"Maeve, wait—"
But she's not waiting. She's handing her card to the clerk, waving off my protests without looking back. "Gift. No arguments."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to. I want to." She turns and there's something fierce in her face. "You need something that's just yours. Something that makes you feel good. Period. End of discussion."
The clerk bags the dress in tissue paper. Hands it over with a smile. Maeve takes it, passes it to me.
"There. Now you have something beautiful that has nothing to do with any of them. Not Holt. Not Grant. Not the shop. Just you."
My eyes burn. I'm not going to cry in this boutique surrounded by sundresses and lavender. I'm not. Instead I hug her. Hard enough to hear her laugh.
"Thank you."
"That's what friends do, honey. We show up."
I hold the dress bag in my lap as we drive home and watch the desert roll past—all that yellow-white shimmer, heat waves rising off the asphalt.
"Tell me about this Grant guy," Maeve says.
I fidget with the bag. Tissue paper crinkles under my fingers. "There's not much to tell. He's nice. Uncomplicated. Asked me for coffee tomorrow morning."
"Nice and uncomplicated. Real sexy."
"Shut up." But I'm smiling. "He's—I don't know. He's easy to talk to. Doesn't make me feel like I'm too much or not enough or whatever."
"So he's safe."
"Is that bad?"
"Depends." She glances over. "You looking for safe or you looking for right?"
I don't answer. A hawk circles overhead, riding thermals. The sky's so blue it hurts to look at.
"Do what feels right for you," Maeve says after a while. "Not what punishes Holt. Not what protects him. You. What does Scout Adler want?"
"I want to not feel like this anymore."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm drowning. Like—" My voice catches. "Like I asked for something I shouldn't have and now everything's broken."
