Susan looks up from her coffee. “Feeling better, honey?”
“I’m going into town,” I say. “Clear my head.”
Before she can answer, Mason appears from the kitchen, chewing on a protein bar like it’s breakfast. “I’ll walk with you.”
I blink. “Shouldn’t you be back at Northeastern? Don’t you have classes or something?”
He laughs, tossing the wrapper into the trash. “Not until Wednesday, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe,” I mutter, snorting anyway.
He grins like he knew he’d win that one.
I go back upstairs for the final touch.
The leather jacket.
Black, cropped just right, with fringe down the sleeves like something an 80s rock dess would wear. I slip into it. The weight. The smell. The cool leather hugging my shoulders.
It feels like a shield.
My hair is still damp but styled enough to look intentional.
Sharp cheekbones.
Soft but deadly makeup.
Smudged liner.
Matte lips.
A version of me that’s not pretending to be okay, but refusing to be weak.
Jeggings.
Black suede boots with a heel.
Shoulders back.
Jaw set.
When I pull open the front door, the wind hits me—but this time I don’t flinch.
Mason whistles low. “Damn. You look… different.”
“Good-different or bad-different?” I ask, pulling on my gloves.
“Terrifying,” he says with a grin. “But, like, in the hot way.”
I roll my eyes, but it warms something in my chest I won’t admit out loud.
We start walking down the road toward town. The cottages are trimmed in early holiday lights, the sky bright but winter-cold, the air smelling like salt and pine.
“So,” Mason says casually, hands shoved in his pockets, “are we shopping or are you trying to scare the locals?”
“Both,” I say.
He laughs.
