Genna’s expression brightens as she gestures to the shopping bag tucked under my chair. “Well, you might as well knock his socks off with your outfit. Make him regret every stupid word that came out of his mouth at Christmas.”
“That wasn’t my motivation for buying it,” I protest, though I’m not entirely sure that’s true. The image of Dylan’s face when he sees me in that dress has definitely crossed my mind more than once.
Genna raises an eyebrow, seeing right through me per usual. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look good. For yourself, for him, for whatever reason. The point is, you deserve to feel as amazing as you’re going to look.”
I fidget with my napkin, tearing tiny pieces from the corner. “I just don’t want to set myself up for more disappointment. I’ve had enough of that lately.”
“I know.” Her voice softens, and when I look up, her expression is more serious than before. “But for what it’s worth, I’ll support you regardless if you decide to stay single, or date my brother, or run off and join the circus.” She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “I just want you to be happy. With or without Dylan.”
The sincerity in her eyes makes my throat tight. “Thank you,” I manage, giving her hand a squeeze back. “That means a lot.”
“Besides,” she adds, her tone lightening, “if he’s stupid enough to let you go, I know at least three guys who’ll be at that party tomorrow who would kill for a shot with you.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Am not. Paul’s best friend Michael has asked about you twice since he met you at the Christmas party.”
“The one with the beard?” I vaguely remember a tall guy with kind eyes who helped me find my coat when I was leaving.
“That’s him. Total sweetheart. Great job. Volunteers at an animal shelter.” She ticks off his qualities on her fingers. “I’m not saying you should marry him, but maybe keeping your options open isn’t the worst idea.”
I consider this, turning my coffee mug slowly between my palms. “Maybe you’re right.”
And maybe she is. Maybe the problem isn’t that Dylan doesn’t see me as more than a friend. Maybe the problem is that I’ve been so focused on him that I haven’t considered there might be other possibilities out there. Other men who might actually want what I want, who wouldn’t play games or send mixed signals.
“Of course I’m right,” Genna says with a satisfied smile. “I’m always right.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling too. “And so humble about it.”
We finish our coffees, the conversation shifting to lighter topics—Genna’s New Year’s resolution, a new dog park I want to take Jhett to, and Paul’s apparent inability to fold laundry properly. But underneath it all, my mind keeps returning to tomorrow night’s party. To the dress in the shopping bag. To Dylan.
I think about the inscription he wrote in the book he gave me:Some things are worth more than they appear. Looking forward to finding out how this story ends.
What did he mean by that? Was it just a casual note, or something more? And why follow it up with “just friends” if he meant something deeper?
Men are confusing. Dylan Williamston, especially so.
But as Genna and I gather our things and leave, I realize something important. No matter what happens tomorrow night—whether Dylan’s eyes light up when he sees me or he barely notices I’m there—I’ll be okay. I’m donepinning my worth on someone else’s validation. I’m done waiting for someone to choose me.
The dress, the heels, the whole outfit—they’re not for Dylan. They’re for me. A physical reminder of the promise I made to myself on Christmas night: to show up for myself first.
“What are you thinking about?” Genna asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.
I blink, focusing on her curious expression. “Just thinking about tomorrow night.”
“Nervous?” she asks as we step outside into the fading afternoon light.
“No,” I say, surprised to find it’s mostly true. “Actually, I think I’m looking forward to it.”
And I am. Not because I might see Dylan, though that’s part of it. But because, for the first time in a long time, I’m genuinely curious about what comes next. About who I might be when I stop waiting for someone else to define me.
The woman in that black-and-pink sequined dress—the one I barely recognized in the mirror—maybe she’s been there all along. Maybe she’s who I’ve been all this time, underneath the careful exterior I constructed to please everyone else.
Tomorrow night, I’ll finally let her out.
And whatever happens next, at least it’ll be real.
Chapter Twenty-Six
