All I can think about is howexcitedI am to see him again.
Two days.
Just two days.
I set the wine down and stare at my reflection in the black TV screen during a commercial break.
My braid is messy.
My lips are smudged, and my sweatshirt is gigantic.
But underneath that?
There’s still a woman who used to turn heads. Still does, on occasion.
There’s still a woman men used to flirt with at bars before she got swallowed alive by corporate life and a long relationship that featured mediocre sex and, lately, terrible dates.
I heave a heavy sigh.
“Okay,” I say out loud. “Enough.”
I get up too fast and wobble slightly, catching myself on the arm of the sofa.
“I am going to wear somethinghot.”
Harper would be proud.
Harper would also be screaming at me.
Maybe she’ll do both.
I stumble into my bedroom, wine buzz making the room feel warmer than usual, and yank open my leggings drawer like I’m trying to rescue someone trapped inside.
Most of it is boring: black-black-black, navy, these weird gray ones I bought on sale and hated immediately.
But then, way at the back…
There it is.
My special workout set.
The one I bought three years ago, back when I felt confident enough to wear it.
A matching deep forest-green sports bra and high-waisted leggings, made of buttery compression fabric that hugseverycurve.
The bra has a longline cut that hits exactly at the narrowest part of my waist.
The leggings sculpt my hips and butt in a way that feels borderline criminal.
I run my fingers over it.
It’s the outfit I wore to a yoga retreat in Tulum, where three different people complimented me before breakfast.
It’s the outfit I stopped wearing because…honestly?
I stopped feeling like the woman who belonged in it.
But tonight?
