My throat tightens, but I nod, forcing myself to meet her eyes instead of staring at the floor. “I’ll think about it.”
Which, for me, is huge. I don't let myself want things lightly anymore.
Before I can retreat into my head and start listening to all the reasons I shouldn't, I step forward and hug her. It surprises both of us, I think—but she hugs me back instantly.
“Thank you,” I mumble against her shoulder. For the opportunity. For the belief. For seeing something in me, I’m still scared to see in myself.
We pull apart slowly, a second longer than casual.
“I’ll see you next weekend anyway.”
Oh yeah, I completely forgot Ezra's Halloween party at the bar.
“I love Halloween, but I highly doubt he's throwing it because he's passionate about sweets and trick-or-treating.”
Aria laughs, sliding her bag onto her shoulder. “Last year, he ran a competition for the sluttiest outfit.”
I blink at her. “You're joking.”
“Nope.”
I fold my arms loosely across my chest, eyebrow arching. “And what exactly did the winner get?”
Her smirk turns wicked. “Him. For the night.”
Of course, that was the prize. I don't even know why I asked.
“And women actually signed up for that?”
She lets out a delighted hum. “The Lawson men are extremely attractive. You'd be lucky to bag one.”
I’m very lucky indeed. And I have the oldest one.
Her eyes narrow playfully as she studies me, like she's trying to read something written across my forehead.
I feel the heat creep up my neck. “I don't think I’ll be entering any competition.”
“Probably for the best. I love Ezra, but the guy can't keep it in his pants.” She adjusts her bag. “Anyway, I should get home before Millie drives my husband insane. Think about what I said, alright? And I’ll see you next weekend.”
She gives me a wave and disappears out the door, her footsteps fading down the corridor.
The room is quiet again.
I tug my ponytail tighter, grounding myself in the familiar pull at my scalp, then cross the room and switch the speakers on.
The first soft notes of Lose You to Love Me drift through the room, wrapping around the mirrors, the barre, the empty floor.
I turn toward my reflection, and for a moment, I just look.
My dad is gone.
The words still feel unnatural in my head. Too blunt. Too final. There was a time when everything in my life revolved around keeping him here—appointments, medication, hospital corridors, whispered reassurances at three in the morning. And now there's just… absence.
But the girl staring back at me isn't the same one who lived in those corridors.
I’m not as hollow as I was in those final months and after them. Grief lives in me now—quiet, constant—but it isn't devouring me in the way anticipatory loss did. My body looks stronger. Softer in places, yes, but healthier. My cheeks have colour again, and my shoulders don't cave inward like I’m bracing for impact.
My eyes still look sad. They always will. But they're brighter. Clearer. Like I've cried enough to wash some of the fog away.
