It was blue with a low cut back. The hundreds of crystals shimmered underneath the perfect lighting in the bathroom. The color made my eyes and skin pop, and I almost looked…exotic.
“I agree,” I said, looking at her instead of at the dress. “But it’s screaming the message. You have to know your audience. This dress is needed when you’re going to a nightclub and need to be heard over the music and constant chatter. But other times, a subtle message, one that says:you’ll never forget mewithout actually using the words, is what’s right. You have a lot to learn about languages,amica.” I ruffled her hair, and she scrunched her nose at me.
“You’re notthatmuch older than me,” she said. “I’m eighteen and you’re twenty-three.”
“True.” I sighed. “But I am where it counts.”
Our eyes held in the mirror.
Her sigh echoed mine. “I’ve seen a lot, too,” she whispered. “Our lives might be different, but they’re still rooted in the same.”
I nodded, understanding. It didn’t matter if she was me or if I was her. We both belonged to this world, which, for a lot of women, meant we were considered property. She couldn’t make the decision who to marry because it was already decided for her. Just like I couldn’t go around asking questions about the man I was going to marry, because apparently, there was a story there and it had to do with me.
“Okay,” she said, perking up a bit. “If not this fabulous dress,at leastwear these with it.” She ran into my closet again and set a pair of shoes at my feet. A pair of open-toe oatmeal-colored quilted heels.
“Deal,” I said, smiling at her.
As I slipped the heels on, she continued to watch me through the mirror.
“What?” I said, sensing her hesitation. She usually wasn’t shy about anything.
“You always wear black.” She shrugged, and then held a hand up when she noticed the look on my face. “I know you wear it a lot for work, but I also know you don’t always have to wear it. I see the other girls before and after their shifts. They wear different colors. It’s like you’re always preparing for a funeral. You might as well be my old aunt Mary who’s been wearing black ever since her husband died five years ago.”
“That’s dedication,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
She shrugged. “Just sayin’. You’re young and beautiful. You should lighten up a bit. Take advantage of the life you’ve been given. Even though we’re alike, at least you can choose who to marry, right?”
I looked down and fiddled with a few makeup items on the counter. I wasn’t sure why, maybe her tone and the realities of this life, but it made my heart feel weighed down. “Yes and no,” I said. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Nothing is ever complicated,” she said. “Life is as simple as this. You got something to say?Say it.You got something you need to do?Do it.You feel something?Stop denying it.Even if it’s not meant to be, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.Humans are the ones who complicate everything by adding unnecessary drama. They even do it in romance books.
“The hero or heroine starts to feel something, and pages and pages ofWhat is this I’m feeling?And why?start to happen. Then all of a sudden,WHAM!, they get this great epiphany, like…THIS IS LOVE! No shit, Sherlock. They know it’s love all along, but they’re too chicken to just admit it. Even to us. The people in their heads.”
“Isn’t that funny?” I said, setting down the mascara. “When an author writes, the characters are in the author’s head. But when readers read, we’re inside of the character’s heads.”
Her smile came slow. “No shit. I never thought of it that way.”
I nodded. “And now I know why you scream, “IT’S LOVE, SHERLOCK!” in the middle of the night.”
She laughed. “Yeah, thanks for never calling me out on it.”
I laughed a little too. “My sleep schedule is all messed up. Even when I’m off, I can’t sleep. I just thought it was your thing.”
“Yeah, because I’m so weird.”
“No, because you’re unique.”
A genuine smile came to her face, one that showed her age, and then the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock on my bedside table. “He’s almost on time! I won’t give him too much hell.” Then before I could protest, she was out of my bedroom, Bambina on her heels, running toward the front door.
A few seconds later, I heard a male voice through Bambina’s barking and Cilla shushing her. “Rosalia?”
He didn’t know what I looked like. I could tell by the questioning tone that he had no idea if Cilla was me or not.
“If I were, I would have a sparkling dress on right now,” Cilla said loud enough for me to hear. “You Benjamin?”
“Benjamin Dalton,” he said, and I walked out as they were shaking hands.
As he let her hand go, his eyes moved to mine, and they stilled. I stilled too. Richard Dalton’s features lived on through his brother’s face, but there was something rougher about him. Not as polished and charming. I liked that about him immediately. It wasn’t a politician’s practiced facade. It was true—and the truth without finding my way out of another labyrinth was appealing to me.
