“I can hear you thinking from here,” Jessa calls from the couch without looking up from her laptop. “Stop spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re absolutely spiraling.”
I pull out a black dress. Put it back. Pull out a burgundy sweater. Put it back.
“It’s just dinner,” I say. More to myself than to her. “Casual. Low-key. A basic first date, except with less pressure…because it’s not real. So. What’s there to spiral about?”
“Uh-huh.” Jessa’s still typing. “And the fact that you’ve been standing in front of that closet for twenty minutes has nothing to do with Brody’s kiss the other night?”
My face goes hot. “No! It. Does. Not.”
“Oh, please, you came in here like you’d just stolen your first kiss, all grinning and breathless.”
“I did not.”
“Touching your face like ‘I’ll never wash this cheek again!’”Jessa goes full Victorian, pressing her wrist to her forehead as she faints against the couch.
“Ew, Jessa.” I laugh, tossing one of the rejected outfits at her. “Stop. I’m trying to think, and you’re not helping.”
“Overthinking is more like it.”
I shoot her a scowl. That’s it. I reach back without looking and grab a dress at random. “This one,” I say.
See? How’sthatfor not overthinking?
Okay, wait—on second thought, that maybe isn’t the best way to make this possibly life-changing decision. Oh heavens, please don’t let me have grabbed something horrible. Nothing orange.
Jessa looks up. Surveys the dress. Nods approval. “It’s perfect.”
“Really?” I glance down to find my emerald-green dress. One of my favorite Goodwill finds and one I’ve been saving for the right occasion. I let out a relieved sigh.
Jessa presses her wrist to her forehead again. “Oh dear. I’ve found my dress, but goodness, how will I ever decide on hosiery on time?”
“Stop!” I cry as Jessa breaks down laughing.
We both go still at the sound of a knock at the door.
“Is that—that can’t be him. It’s too early!” I say, frantically gathering all the dresses into my arms.
“Oh, relax,” Jessa says, pushing her laptop aside. “It’s probably Mrs. Swenson from downstairs asking us to keep it down again. I’ll get it.”
Jessa vanishes down the hall, comes back a moment later holding an envelope.
A large manila envelope with my name typed on the front.
My stomach drops.
“This was in our mailbox,” Jessa says, handing it to me. “Looks official.”
I know what it is before I open it. The return address confirms it: Starlight Publishing—Children’s Publishing Division.
I submitted my manuscript three months ago. A children’s book about a dragon who wants to fly and the little girl who helps him find his wings. All twenty-eight pages are filled withwhimsical illustrations I drew myself. It’s twenty-eight pages of the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever created.
I’ve been checking my email obsessively for weeks.
Apparently they went old-school.
