I swallowed hard and nodded slowly.“Okay,” I murmured, softer than I meant.“We’ll get ready together.”
Her answering smile was small but warm, and just like that, the tight coil inside me loosened, if only slightly.Within minutes, my room was in chaos.
Makeup bags exploded across the bed.Outfits, half-rejected, half-maybe, lay draped over every surface.My Bluetooth speaker blaredTaylor Swift’s “Bejewelled”, and the scent of Clara’s favourite cranberry body spray hung in the air.
It felt… like old times.
I sat cross-legged on the floor while Clara straddled me from behind, sitting on my bed, carefully braiding my hair into a loose, messy fishtail that slid over one shoulder.Her brow furrowed with concentration, tongue peeking out slightly, the exact same way she used to braid my hair before middle school dances.
“You know,” she said eventually, clipping the end of the braid, “this feels like old times.”
“Except for the part where our entire lives imploded,” I muttered, standing to smudge highlighter along her cheekbone.
“Minor detail,” she deadpanned, making us both snort.
She grabbed a lipstick and held it up like a weapon.“Okay, Cass.Do we wantsoft and romanticorkiss-me-under-the-fireworksbold?”
I wrinkled my nose.“Soft.Definitely soft.”
“You’re no fun.”But she chose the soft pink anyway, applying it with surprising care.
By the time we were done, my reflection barely felt like me.My hair braided, a sweep of rose-gold shimmer across my lids, lashes curled high.I’d pulled on a satin black camisole tucked into high-waisted dark jeans, layered with an oversized cream cardigan that fell off one shoulder.My boots were heeled but comfortable, the kind you wear when you want to look effortless without trying too hard.
Clara, of course, went bold, wearing an ice blue wrap dress that matched her eyes and hugged her in all the right places.Her blonde hair was twisted up in soft curls, and a deep red lip made her look like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.
“You look like trouble, Mrs.James,” I said, grinning as I grabbed a tube of mascara.
“That’s the point,” she winked, reaching into her bag and pulling out a tiny flask.She twisted it open, smirking.
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did,” she said, handing it over.“Figured we’d start the night like the good old days.”
I took a sip, the burn of cheap whiskey curling warm in my chest.“God, this is disgusting.”
“And yet,” she said, taking a sip herself, “tradition.”
For the first time in months, we laughed together, full, unguarded laughter that shook something loose inside me.It didn’t erase everything, didn’t fix anything, but for a moment, it reminded me there were still pieces of me worth keeping.
That I wasn't just Andrew's mistress, the homewrecker, the girl he said he loved, but then...then...he...I was still having a hard time coming to terms with what he had done.
By the end of it, Clara was barefoot on my bed scrolling through playlists, and I was leaning against the vanity finishing the last of my whiskey-chased soda, my nerves buzzing.
Neither of us said it out loud, but I think we both needed this, the music, the makeup, the ritual of choosing armour in the form of clothes and lipstick.
By the time she left to meet Mason, I stood in the middle of my messy room, boots in one hand, phone in the other, my heart hammering as I whispered to no one:
“Okay.You’ve got this.”
By the time I walked into Adam’s pub, my nerves had settled into a low hum beneath my ribs.The place was alive, thrumming with energy; warm lights were strung overhead, and music spilled over the low rumble of conversation and laughter.The smell of fried food and whiskey clung to the air, comforting in a way I didn’t expect.
The staff welcomed me easily, folding me into their rhythm like I’d been part of it all along.They were my age, give or take a few years, quick to joke and quicker to laugh.I felt almost… normal.
Adam found me behind the bar, sliding a shot glass toward me.“You ready, little Morgan?”
“Not even a little.”I huffed.
“Good.”He clinked his glass against mine.“Best way to start the night.”
