Harper tsks. “It’s only embarrassing if your dress sucks. Speaking of—what are you wearing?”
I spin in a circle. “I HAVE NOTHING.”
“You have a closet full of clothing, Elena.”
“I have nothing date-worthy! I have business casual! I have yoga leggings! I have that stupid green?—”
“Focus,” Harper says. “Go to the back of your closet.”
I yank open the doors and shove hangers aside.
There are black dresses, work blouses, plus a questionable leather skirt from 2018.
An entire section of Depression Sweaters from my emo era.
And then, there it is.
My wine-red wrap dress.
It’s got a deep color and soft fabric, along with a neckline that toes the line between tasteful and dangerous.
Plus a waist tie that cinches just right, and a hem that lands mid-thigh.
I haven’t worn it since…God. Before the breakup. Before everything got gray.
I hold it up.
My breath catches.
Harper squeals. “YES. That is the one. That dress is the reason men start wars.”
“I can’t wear this.”
“You HAVE to wear that.”
“What if Colt thinks?—”
“Elena. Thinks what?”
I stop pacing. “You know. Thinks I’m trying to impress him.”
“You’re not dressing for Colt,” she says. “You’re dressing for YOU.”
And something in my chest loosens.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. I’ll wear it.”
I shower in record time.
Blow-dry my hair until it’s soft and wavy.
Do my makeup carefully—nothing too intense, just a smoky bronze eye and gloss that makes my lips look bitten.
I put on the dress.
It fits like someone tailored it for my soul.
I slip on heeled ankle boots.
