“Energy.”
“That’s not a real answer.”
Beside me, Allie snorts into her iced coffee while a nail technician massages lotion into her hands.
Meanwhile, Gram is somehow arguing with another elderly woman across the salon. “She called me wrinkled. Aggressively,” Gram informs everyone loudly.
“You ARE wrinkled,” the woman fires back.
Gram gasps. “Well, your husband follows thirst traps on Instagram.”
The entire salon goes silent.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, horrified.
Allie is crying with laughter.
Harper nearly falls out of her chair.
“Maureen,” the woman screeches.
Gram points triumphantly. “That’s right, Maureen. I saw the comments.”
“How do you even know how to use Instagram?” I ask weakly.
“You have to ask that after Allie’s wedding?”
She has a point.
Still, the woman is a public menace.
An hour later,the stylist is running her hands through the curls, turning them into big, soft waves. Allie sits in the chair beside me, her dark hair framing her face in soft curls.
“You’re nervous,” Allie says knowingly.
I glance at my reflection.
Maybe I am. Because I think this means something.
Real dates are intentional.
Real dates mean effort.
Feelings.
Vulnerability.
And Daltyn? He doesn’t do anything halfway.
That realization settles softly inside my chest while Harper says from the other chair, “You look radiant.”
I blink at myself in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me looks… happy. Softer somehow. Lighter.
Like she’s finally starting to breathe again after holding it in for years.
Emotion catches unexpectedly in my throat.
