Hair next.
I brush it out, letting it fall in soft waves, hiding the puffy redness from my earlier meltdown. I pin one side back, because loose is nice but not like I just-rolled-out-of-bed-loose. Then makeup. My hands shake so bad from nerves, I almost jab myself in the eye with the eyeliner pencil. I have to put it down twice just to get a grip. Thankfully, the mascara goes on with no casualties. I dust foundation over my cheeks, swipe a little gloss across my lips, and stare at myself, practicing a smile that looks casual, and not terrified.
It’s almost time.
My phone buzzes, vibrating across the whole damn dresser. I snatch it up before anyone else can race upstairs and read it first.
9:15.
Ben will be here in fifteen minutes.
My stomach jumps with that weird pulse under my ribs.
He texted.
See you soon. Can’t wait.
I read it three times, thinking the words will vanish if I blink.
There’s a knock on the door frame. Instinctively, I tense.
My stepmother leans in, not even bothering to hide the way her eyes sweep over me, searching up and down for something to criticize.
I brace myself.Here we go.
She’s wearing pearls, a sharp suit jacket, her makeup flawless. All the armor she needs to rip me to pieces with just a sentence.
She purses her lips. “You’re going out? With a tattoo artist? April, really. You think this is going to impress anyone? Don’tget your hopes up. Men like him don’t stick around for girls like you.”
It lands exactly like she wants. Cold, mean, and with the intent to shatter.
My heart sinks, but I don’t let it show. I stare at a spot over her shoulder. I imagine Ben’s voice instead, soft and warm, calling me beautiful. And it’s enough.
I square my shoulders and look her right in the eyes.
She waits for a reaction, but I don’t give her one. I grab my bag, check my reflection one last time, and slide past her.
All the way down the hall, I feel her staring at me, raking imaginary claws down my back. But she doesn’t say another word.
Downstairs, it’s quiet. The living room’s dark and empty, except for the glow of some reality show on mute. Everything smells like lemon cleaner and fake vanilla. There are no family photos on the wall; all those disappeared when my mom died. I step carefully, not wanting to leave footprints in their world. But tonight, I’m not apologizing for taking up space.
Outside, the night is cold enough that my breath shows. The edge of the sidewalk is bathed in orange light from the streetlamp. No sign of Ben yet, but I pull the door shut behind me, refusing to look back.
I force my legs to keep moving, step after step, down the path and onto the sidewalk. My nerves are fried, but excitement keeps my chin up.
I made it. I’m doing this.
Not for anyone except the girl in the mirror, dress fluttering around her knees, with a secret garden blooming on her hip.
Tonight, I’m choosing myself.
I wait, pretending I’m not counting every headlight that crawls down the street. My hands are already freezing, but Idon’t dare go back inside. I’d rather turn into a popsicle than deal with another “pep talk” from my stepmonster.
Then I see it.
Ben’s truck.
Big and dark, engine purring as it eases to the curb. He kills the headlights. Then the door opens and he climbs out.
