Page 58 of Glitched Play

Noelle claps her hands together. "Go get dressed. We're shopping."

"Shopping?"

"Yes."

"I don't know if I should leave. I have work to do."

"It's Saturday."

"Gaming doesn't observe weekends."

"No, but I do." She points toward the hallway. "Go. Jeans are fine. Cute shoes if you have them. If not, we'll fix that too."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm in Noelle's car, holding a croissant she insisted was breakfast and trying to process how quickly my quiet Saturday became a full-contact bonding event. She drives like she talks, confident and fast, weaving through Austin traffic while telling me about her kids, her husband Matt, the gala, the foundation, and the fact that Witt hates surprises unless he is the one creating them.

"He doesn't hate people," she says as we pull into a shopping district that looks far too expensive for my current emotional state. "People think that sometimes, because he's quiet and blunt and doesn't do all the social cushioning everyone expects. But he doesn't hate people."

"I didn't think he did."

"Good." Noelle parks and glances over. "Because he notices more than anyone. He just doesn't always know what to do with what he notices."

That lands somewhere I don't expect.

Because I have seen it. Witt noticing my mug. My box. My pretzels. The photo in my office. Chase on the phone. The way he sees everything but doesn't always react the way other people would.

"He noticed I didn't have a dress," I say quietly.

Noelle smiles like I've passed a test. "Exactly."

Shopping with Noelle is less like shopping and more like being swept into a hurricane with excellent taste. She doesn't ask whether I like something before she hands it to me. She decides what will work, what won't, what will make me feel powerful, what will make me feel uncomfortable, and what will make Witt "short-circuit in a very respectful way." Her words, not mine. I nearly choke on my iced coffee when she says it.

By the fourth boutique, I've tried on three black dresses, one navy dress, something red that made me look like I was auditioning to be a scandal, and one silver gown I refused to leave the dressing room in because it clung to every curve I normally try not to think about.

Noelle knocks on the door. "Come out."

"No."

"Maci."

"Noelle."

"I saw it on the hanger. I know it's good."

"It has no respect for personal boundaries."

"Neither does this family. Come out."

I groan, unlock the door, and step into the fitting area.

Noelle goes silent.

For the first time all morning, she has no immediate commentary, and that makes me more nervous than if she'd screamed. The gown is deep emerald with soft, structured fabric that skims instead of squeezes. The neckline is elegant but not boring, the waist pulls in just enough to give me shape, and the slit up one side makes my legs look approximately eighteen miles long. My silvery-pink hair falls over my shoulders, and for one strange second, I don't feel like the girl who never fit in at baseball fields or soccer games or corporate parties.

I look like someone who belongs at the gala.

Someone who might belong at Synatrix.

Someone Witt O'Ryan might look at twice.