“And he winked.”
“Oh my God.” She fans herself with one hand. “You are doomed.”
“I am not. I am immune. I have been vaccinated against men like him. I got the whole series. Booster and everything.”
She softens, the humor slipping just enough to show the friend underneath. “Belle… you sound alive again. Ranting. Pacing. Roasting him. That’s my girl.”
Something twinges in my chest. She’s right. I have been moving in slow motion for weeks. Today, I yelled at my steering wheel, argued with my dad, and verbally sparred with a six-foot-three winger who thinks rules are suggestions.
It felt… like something.
“Just because he is hot does not mean I am interested,” I say.
“Of course not,” she says sweetly. “And I only drink water on weekends.”
I give her the finger. She blows me a kiss.
I swing my legs off the bed, toes hitting the soft rug I bought yesterday in a burst of optimism. My apartment is small but cute: exposed brick wall, tiny balcony that overlooks a parking lot and one sad tree, and a kitchen with enough counter space for approximately three grapes. It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine.
And it’s mercifully free of cheating musicians.
“Help me pick something professional for the charity event tonight,” I say, walking to my open closet. “It is my first official outing. I need to look like I know what I am doing and also like I didn’t cry in my car recently.”
Shari perks up. “Ooh. Fashion show.”
I hold up a navy sheath dress.
She immediately wrinkles her nose. “No sad clothes. That one screams ‘my boyfriend dumped me via Google Calendar.’”
I swap it for a soft floral wrap dress.
“Too romantic,” she says. “You are not trying to fall in love. You are trying to assert dominance.”
Finally, I pull out the black fitted dress I bought on clearance and never wore. Structured shoulders. Clean lines. Hits mid-thigh but not offensively so.
Shari squeals. “Yes. That one says ‘I am in charge’ and also ‘cry in the shower thinking about me.’”
“I do not want Bryce thinking about me.”
She raises a brow. “Sure, and I’m the Queen of Nashville.”
I step into the dress and zip it up, twisting in the mirror. It hugs my waist, skims my hips, makes my legs look like I have been working out instead of stress-eating pretzels over the sink.
I add a pair of simple black heels, then dig through my jewelry box until I find small gold hoops and the delicate necklace my mom gave me when I graduated college.
Shari watches, quieter now. “You look like yourself again,” she says.
I swallow around the unexpected lump in my throat.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. You look like the girl who used to sprint from the student section to the executive box to argue with your dad about stats.”
I smile a little at the memory. “He still hates when I am right.”
“Which is always,” she says.
I move to the bathroom and lean close to the mirror, adding eyeliner and mascara. My hand trembles only a little. I swipe on lipstick, blot it, then stare at myself.
