“I don’t like my arms.”
“I’ve seen you lift weights, and it’s a dive bar in the summer.” Adeline places a hand on her hip. “Try on the damn tank top.”
The fabric is soft again, Adeline getting the memo that I can’t do anything itchy. It surprises me, though, that she’s been able to find something so lacy that still abides by this rule.
“I brought pasties.” Adeline holds up as I yank my shirt off.
“Pasties?” I frown.
“You’re not going to want to wear a bra with that.”
I beg to differ. “But I need to wear a bra.”
“Why?” Adeline questions.
Because I always wear a bra.
“Free the nipples,”Sammie’s ghost whispers in my ear, a tad too gleeful for a ghost.
“The tank top will fit better without a bra,” Adeline explains. “Plus, you won’t have to mess with the straps. You’ve got great boobs, Isolde. They’re perky.”
“They’re small.” I try not to be embarrassed by this fact. Bodies come in all shapes and sizes, I know.
And Adeline is not putting up with my sorrow over small boobs. “Put these pasties on and put your shirt on.”
She wanders back to the kitchen in search of more sugar cookies. I do as she says, messing around with the pasties, putting my nipples in jail, before pulling the tank top over me.
“Holy shit, you look hot.” Adeline finds mestanding in front of a mirror, shoving the remnants of a cupcake into her mouth.
The jeans and tank top make me look pretty. It sounds ridiculous because it’s not like I’ve dressed up in a ballgown or anything. But there’s something about the combination that makes it hard to turn away from the mirror.
“Your ass in those jeans.” Adeline makes a kissing noise.
She’s right. It’s probably because I haven’t worn pants that snatch my waist in, or when I wear leggings, they're normally covered by a gigantic T-shirt.
“And what did I tell you about the boobs?” Adeline teases.
The delicate lace of the light blue tank top is flattering against my skin. My chest appears lifted, and thanks to the tank’s double lining and the pasties, I’m not worried about any nip slips.
The outfit is hardly adventurous by most people’s standards, but for me it’s a push. Looking at my reflection, though, I’m happy leaving my comfort zone in the name of fashion.
“Makeup,” Adeline says.
I sit on the edge of the bed while she adds all kinds of things to my face. Sometimes I catch Sammie’s ghost out of the corner of my eye. She’ll give me a little thumbs-up but remains unusually silent. I wonder if she’s remembering when we used to share a room during our teen years, arguing over the flat iron.
“Want me to curl your hair?” Adeline asks.
“That’ll be a bit much, won’t it? Besides, don’t you need to get ready too?”
“I’ve got my outfit picked out, and I’ll brush my hair or something. It’ll be fine.”
“Do you even want to go on this date?”
Adeline could get any man she wanted, but she’s almostplaying it too coy. I really don’t think she likes this guy, so I’m not sure why she’s forcing herself to go on a date.
“No, it’s. . .” Adeline is whipping out hair tools at an alarming rate. “I don’t know.”
She falls onto the edge of my bed, tucking a knee up and relaxing. “Blake and I have gone on a few dates already. He’s. . . nice.”
