“What does that mean?” I ask. My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
“You’ll see,” Zoe says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.”
Mira finishes my eyes and moves to my lips. “She’s right, though. It doesn’t make sense until it does. And then it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.”
“You’re in a cluster too?” I ask.
“Bonded six years ago. Three men.” She smiles, soft and private. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”
She finishes and steps back, turning my stool toward the mirror.
I don’t recognize myself.
The face looking back at me has color, definition,life. Cheekbones I didn’t know I had. Eyes that look bigger, brighter. Lips that look soft and full.
I look like someone who matters.
“Oh,” Mira says quietly. “Oh, you’re going to destroy them.”
We leave with a bag full of products Mira insisted I needed—skincare, mascara, lip gloss, a little palette of eyeshadows she swore was foolproof. A perfume she spritzed on my wrist, something soft and warm with a hint of vanilla. Things I’ve watched other women use my whole life and never thought I’d own.
We hit two more stores. Pajamas that aren’t scratchy. Basics that actually fit.
And then Zoe stops dead in front of a window display.
“Oh,” she says. “Oh, no. We’re going in.”
“Zoe—”
She’s already pulling me through the door.
The store is all leather and lace and things I would never look at twice. Zoe moves through it like she has a target locked, and before I can protest she’s shoving something white into my hands.
“Try this on.”
I look down. White leather pants. A top that’s half corset, half sleeve—white lace over skin on one side, fitted white leather on the other. A silver chain choker.
“I can’t wear this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I—” I don’t have an answer. Because it’s too much. Because it’s not me. Because I’ve spent fifteen years wearing things that help me disappear and this is the opposite of disappearing.
“Just try it,” Zoe says. Softer now. “For fun. You don’t have to buy it.”
I go into the dressing room because it’s easier than arguing.
The leather slides on like it was made for me. The lace sits against my skin, delicate and strange. The chain settles at my throat, cool and light.
I look in the mirror.
I don’t recognize myself.
Not in a bad way. In a way that makes my breath catch. The white against my pale hair, my pale skin—I look like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare. I can’t decide which.
