When I step out of the fitting room, Genna’s reaction is immediate and dramatic. Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes widening.
“Holy. Smokes.” She circles me slowly, like a shark assessing its prey. “Chey, you look...”
“Ridiculous?” I offer, crossing my arms over my chest, then quickly uncrossing them when I realize the movement makes the neckline dip even lower.
“Incredible,” she corrects, stopping in front of me. “Seriously, you look like you should be on a red carpet somewhere.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help glancing at my reflection in the three-way mirror outside the fitting room. The dress really does fit perfectly, clinging in all the right places. The pink sequins form a pattern that wraps around the black base like flames, drawing the eye upward from hem to neckline.
“It’s not really me, though...”
“Maybe it should be.” Genna adjusts a strap on my shoulder. “Maybe this is exactly who you are when you stop dressing for other people’s expectations.”
Her words hit close to home. Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for years? Dressing for Garrett’s approval. Trying to look professional enough, adult enough, sophisticated enough. Always enough for someone else, never myself.
“Remember that talk we had after Christmas?” Genna continues, fluffing my hair around my shoulders. “About showing up for yourself for once? This dress is you showing up.”
“Fine.” I sigh, even as a smile tugs at my lips. “But if I fall over in whatever death-trap heels you’re inevitably going to make me wear with this dress, I’m taking you down with me.”
Genna’s answering grin is nothing short of triumphant. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Thirty minutes later, we’ve completed the outfit with strappy black heels (sensible height, I insisted) and a small silver clutch that will barely hold my phone and lipstick. The total price makes me wince, but Genna reminds me I haven’t splurged on anything in months.
“Consider it an investment in your new backbone,” she says as the sales associate wraps our purchases in tissue paper. “Strong, independent women who tell their exes to get lost deserve pretty things.”
I laugh. “Is that a direct quote from somewhere?”
“If it’s not, it should be. I’m very quotable.” She links her arm through mine as we exit the boutique, shopping bags swinging from our free hands. “Coffee? I’m in desperate need of caffeine after all that decision-making.”
“Lead the way,” I agree, squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight. The day is unseasonably warm for late December, the kind of deceptive weather that makes you forget winter exists until it returns with a vengeance the next day.
We settle at a corner table in our favorite café, shopping bags tucked safely beneath our table. The place is crowded withpost-Christmas shoppers seeking refuge, but the buzz of conversation creates a comfortable white noise around us.
“So,” Genna says after we’ve received our drinks—a vanilla latte for her, black coffee with a splash of cream for me. She leans forward, elbows on the table, with that look in her eyes that means I’m in trouble. “What’s going on with you and my brother? Have you talked to him since Christmas?”
I stiffen, my hand tightening around my mug. I should have known this was coming. Genna’s never been one to leave emotional elephants sitting unaddressed in the room.
“Nope. Not since he reiterated to me that we’re ‘just friends,’” I reply, stirring my coffee with unnecessary vigor.
“Chey.” She reaches across the table to cover my hand, stopping my aggressive stirring. “My brother is an idiot.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “That’s your defense?”
“It’s not a defense, it’s a fact.” She sits back, taking a sip of her latte and leaving a tiny foam mustache that she quickly wipes away. “But there’s no way he actually believes that. He’s probably just freaking out because he’s finally feeling something real for once in his life, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.”
I shake my head, not wanting to hope. Hope is dangerous. Hope is what kept me with Garrett for years after I should’ve left. Hope is what made Christmas day so painful.
“Or,” I counter, “he meant exactly what he said, and you’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Please.” She waves a hand dismissively. “When have I ever said something just to make you feel better? I’m brutally honest. It’s my brand.”
She has a point there. Genna’s never been one to sugarcoat things. It’s one of the things I love most about her.
“Did you talk to him about me?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
She hesitates just long enough to make my stomach clench. “Not exactly. But I don’t need to. I know my brother. And the way he looks at you is not the way he looks at anyone else.”
I stare into my coffee, watching the light create patterns on its dark surface. “Well, he’ll have a chance to look at me all he wants tomorrow night. In a pink dress, no less.”
