I hesitated. The jeans looked familiar; I’d borrowed them once for some awards thing Nate dragged me to. He’d told me they looked ‘too aggressive’ and made me change. My gut knotted at the memory.
Then I reached for them. “Those’ll do.”
“Atta girl.” She held up two tops, a slate-blue silk camisole and a white linen shirt. “You pick while I find boots.”
I ran my fingers over the silk, cool and soft as river water. The white shirt seemed safer. Boring. Forgettable. I tossed it aside and pulled the camisole free.
When I slipped it over my head, the fabric clung lightly to my skin. My reflection in her mirror looked unfamiliar — streaked mascara, puffy eyes, hair in a matted ponytail. A ghost of someone who used to care.
Hannah appeared behind me holding a brush and a small makeup bag. “Sit.”
I dropped to the edge of her bed while she stood over me, applying careful, deliberate strokes like she was sketching a new version of me from scratch. The brush tickled my eyelids.Powder masked the redness beneath my eyes. She dabbed gloss on my lips, then stepped back to admire her work.
“You clean up decent,” she said.
“I look like I’m pretending I’m fine.”
“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, “pretending’s better than curling up in my bathroom crying into my spare towels.”
I snorted — the first sound close to a laugh in hours. “You don’t even let guests use your good towels.”
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s how dire you looked.”
When she handed me a pair of gold hoops, I hesitated before putting them on. They caught the light when I moved — little sparks near my face.
“He’s not worth this effort,” I muttered.
“Of course he’s not,” she said, grabbing her jacket. “Butyouare.”
Her words stuck. I stood there, staring at the mirror. The girl staring back looked raw but alive, eyes clearer, jaw set. Not healed — just breathing again.
Hannah rummaged through a drawer and tossed me her leather jacket. “Here. You’ll need this when you realize how cold it gets walking back fromThe Pour House.”
“The Pour House?” I raised an eyebrow. “You’re choosing a dive.”
“The good kind,” she said with a wink. “Dim lights, sticky tables — zero chance of bumping into anyone who reads sports gossip.”
“One drink,” I reminded her, pulling the jacket on. It smelled like her perfume, dry and sharp. “Then I’m going home.”
“One drink,” she echoed. “You’ll sip soda, glare at me while I talk to strangers, and be in bed by midnight.”
“Deal.”
She slung her arm over my shoulders and steered me toward the door. “Best kind of deal,” she said. “The kind that messes with your ex’s telepathic radar.”
By the door, Hannah’s mirror caught the lamplight, long and thin like a sliver of water. I paused before it, tugging the leather jacket tighter around me. The girl inside stared back with glossy lips and eyes that didn’t match — one part bruised, one part defiant. My hair fell uneven across my shoulders, a mess tamed by cheap makeup and willpower. She looked like someone mid-transformation, uncertain whether to rise or crack.
Behind me, Hannah rummaged for her keys, humming off pitch. Her noise kept the silence from swallowing me whole. I leaned closer to the mirror, breath fogging the glass. My reflection blurred, then sharpened again. That faint tremor in my jaw, the tension coiled at my throat — maybe it wasn’t fear. Maybe it was something waking up.
I pictured Nate smirking in that bed; the sheet pulled carelessly around him. My fingers clenched around the strap of my purse. The ache in my chest flared sharp, then steady, like a bruise remembering how it happened.
I spoke before I could stop myself, voice low enough that Hannah wouldn’t hear. “You don’t belong to him anymore.”
The words hung in the air. For once, they sounded true.
I rolled my eyes at myself but felt something stir inside me — the faintest tug of anticipation. Not joy. Not yet. Just motion. The night outside waited, humming somewhere beyond her doorway. I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped out into it.
Chapter 2
