“Hurrah!” She throws her hands up like she’s just won a holiday. “We leave straight after closing.”
I stare at the bouquet I was working on, mind blank. The colours all clash suddenly. My brain is too busy imagining seeing Alex again. Sitting near him. Attempting words.
Utterly terrifying.
Christina disappears to the front of the shop. “Half an hour until closing. No backing out.”
True to her word, she flips the sign to “Closed” at four o’clock and sweeps back in like a one-woman weather system.
“Right. Cottage. Wardrobe. Let’s go.”
“I look fine,” I say. “It’s a pub, not a date.”
She doesn’t waste breath arguing. She simply plucks my keys from my hand and strides through the back door, curls bouncing as if she’s leading a parade.
By the time I catch up with her, half my wardrobe is already spread across my bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask, horrified.
“Looking for something that isn’t a funeral outfit,” she says, rooting around. “You own approximately seven colours: black, black, dark grey, navy, black again, and this floral top you keep buried because you’re terrified of looking nice.”
“I’m not terrified of looking nice,” I protest. “I’m terrified of looking ridiculous.”
Christina pauses at that, her expression softening. “You’re not ridiculous. You’re just out of practice. Let the top give you a nudge.”
I wish I had even half her confidence. Christina grew up hearing she could be anything she fancied. When I was sixteen, my mother told me no decent man would ever want me unless I lost weight. I know now how cruel that was, but some things don’t wash off. They settle. They shape how you move through the world. Confidence doesn’t spring up easily on poisoned soil.
Christina dives back into the pile and lets out a triumphant gasp, holding up the pale blue top with navy flowers, the one I bought for a wedding and haven’t touched since.
“No,” I say instantly. “Too much.”
“Em,” she groans, “it’s a pretty top, not a ball gown. With jeans, it’s perfect.”
I stare at it. Sweetheart neckline. Soft belt at the waist. Feminine. Visible.
Christina’s voice drops. “You deserve to feel nice. Not for him. For you.”
That gets me more than I want it to.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if I look ridiculous, I’m blaming you.”
“You’ll look beautiful,” she says, completely certain.
I roll my eyes and head to the bathroom to change before my brain talks me out of the idea.
When I step back into the room, Christina beams. “See? Gorgeous.”
Heat creeps up my neck. The top feels bolder than anything I usually wear, and for a moment I’m convinced there’s far too much colour and far too much neckline on display. Too much me, really. Still… it isn’t as awful as I feared. There’s even a tiny part of me that likes how it looks.
Christina slings her bag over her shoulder. “Come on, before you talk yourself out of it.”
I grab my phone and card, trying not to second-guess every stitch of fabric. The pub’s only down the road; no grand preparation or essentials handbag required.
We step out into the sweet early evening air, and my pulse gives a ridiculous little leap.
I’m about to see him again. Alex Harris. And I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing.
Christina links her arm through mine. “Time for operation ‘Get Emma socialised’.”
