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Her eyes move toward her stomach. “He thinks it makes me look fat.”
“The dress makes you look like you have a body.”
Her husband looks up from his phone. “I’m trying to be honest.”
“So am I.”
His brows rise.
I adjust the seam near her waist and meet her eyes in the mirror. “If you don’t feel beautiful in it, we’ll find something else. If you love it and he doesn’t, keep the dress and reconsider the accessory.”
She stares at me.
Behind her, he says, “Did you just call me an accessory?”
“No. Accessories improve an outfit.”
He leaves and the woman buys the dress.
That afternoon, my mother calls and asks whether I can attend another luncheon.
“No.”
She goes quiet. “Are you busy?”
“No.”
“Then why can’t you come?”
“I can. I just don’t want to.”
The silence stretches long enough that I nearly begin explaining. My schedule is exhausting. The boutique requires attention. Group therapy was rescheduled. Each excuse rises, polished and ready to reassure her that my refusal has nothing to do with her.
I let every one of them die.
“All right,” she says eventually.
“That’s it?”
“I’m learning.”
“So am I.”
She asks whether I want to have coffee with her instead.
I consider it. “Yes.”
We choose Thursday without either of us apologizing.
On Wednesday, Bliss sends a group message asking whether Aura and I want to attend an outdoor concert featuring a man whose music I have pretended to enjoy for six years.
CHARM: No. He sounds like a congested goat discovering heartbreak.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
BLISS: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
AURA: She is finally honest and right.
