“What? It’s true! And Eliana already knows. She walked in on us, remember?”
“I will never forget,” I mutter. “It’s seared into my brain like a bad tattoo.”
They both laugh, and I find myself laughing, too, even though my eyes are still closed and I can’t see their faces. This is nice. This is really, really nice.
My mother finishes with my eyes and moves to my lips. “Pucker,” she instructs. The lipstick glides on smooth and cool. “Perfect. Now, blot.”
I press my lips against the tissue she holds out.
“Okay,” Yasmin says, capping the nail polish. “Let your nails dry and then we’ll get you into that dress. But first—” She pauses dramatically. “Open your eyes.”
I do.
In my tiny bathroom mirror, I barely recognize myself. My eyes are smoky and dramatic, the burgundy shadow making the blue of my irises pop even through my failing vision. My lips are the exact shade of wine-dark roses. My skin looks flawless, glowing.
I look like someone who belongs at a gala. Someone important. Someone who has her shit together.
I look like Bastian Hale’s woman.
“Guys,” I whisper, “it’s beautiful.”
Mom is standing behind me. When I meet her eyes in the mirror, they’re damp. “You’rebeautiful,” she says. “We just helped a little.”
Yasmin appears on my other side to rest her chin on my shoulder. “Okay, but can we talk about how Bastian is going to lose his entire goddamned mind when he sees you?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s not like that.”
“It’sexactlylike that,” Yasmin counters. “The man is obsessed with you. And you’re obsessed with him. It’s disgusting and adorable and everything I’ve ever wanted for you.”
My mother squeezes my shoulders. “Is he good to you, baby?”
I think about Bastian reading cookbooks to me when my eyes get too tired. Him describing paintings in my ear at the Art Institute. The way his hand hovers at the small of my back when we walk to make sure he can catch me if I fall.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s good to me.”
“Then that’s all that matters.” She kisses the top of my head. “Now, let’s get you in that dress.”
The dress is hanging on the back of my bathroom door. Yasmin retrieves it while I carefully stand, holding my hands straight out in front of me like Frankenstein to avoid smudging my fresh manicure.
It’s a deep burgundy velvet with a sweetheart neckline and a slit up one thigh. I found it at a boutique in Wicker Park two weeks ago and spent a mind-boggling amount of money on it without a single ounce of regret.
Yasmin helps me step into it, and my mother zips it up the back.
“Jesus Christ,” Yasmin breathes. “Okay, yeah. Sexy vampire confirmed.”
I turn to look in the mirror again, and even with my limited vision, I can see that the dress fits perfectly. It hugs my curves without being too tight, and the color makes my skin look like fresh cream.
My mother’s hands rest on my shoulders again. “You look just like you did at your high school graduation,” she says softly. “All grown up and ready to take on the world.”
I remember that day. Standing in a borrowed cap and gown, clutching my community college acceptance letter, while Mama cried in the audience. It was one of her good days. She was proud instead of bitter, present instead of checked-out.
“I’m scared,” I admit suddenly.
“Of what?” Yasmin asks.
“All of it. The gala. Bastian. The future.” I swallow hard. “What happens after tonight?”
My mother turns me around to face her. “Youlive, baby girl,” she says simply. “You live as much as you can, for as long as you can. And when things get dark—” She pauses, and I know she’s not just talking about my vision. “When things get dark, you remember that you’re stronger than you think. And you’re not alone.”
