They were asking three grand too much.
Now we’re shopping because a day with Sophie always includes retail therapy.
I watch as Sophie takes a sample stick to swipe over the tester color before she quickly applies it to her lips and smacks them loudly together. She pouts in the mirror before kissing the back of her hand, scowling at the impression. “It isn’t kiss-proof.”
I shake my head and start looking around.
Mom said she needed some new lip gloss the other day. I find the brand she loves in the soft mauve she wears calledPressed Petals. I place it in my small basket.
I could use a new gloss, too.
I pick up my usual, the sheer taupe that always goes with everything, but before I put it in my basket, I turn it over to look at what it’s called.
Barely There.
I take a deep breath, then look around to discover that Sophie is no longer testing out lipsticks on the back of her hand. Instead, she’s flirting with a tall dark-haired man whose eyes are glazed over by Sophie’s magnetism. With Sophie distracted, I discreetly remove the list from my back pocket.
I unfold it so I can see the words.
Wear something just because I like it.
Then my eyes dance over to the reds.
The reds that have always felt too bold, too risky, too “leading lady.”
I think about the girl in the picture in my drawer. She deserves to know she grew into the leading lady of her own life. And it’s just lipstick.
I fold the paper up, slipping it back into my pocket, and place my usual gloss back on the shelf.
My mom once told me that my great-grandma wore red lipstick every day until she died. I always smiled at the story. They say she was beautiful and that I look just like her.
I always wanted to know if red was something I’d like, too.
My fingers trail over the different reds—crimsons, scarlets, berries—all beautiful, but my heart skips a beat when my hand stops over one.
It’s a true red.
I pick it up and turn it over.
It’s calledStill Here.
I don’t overthink it. I drop it in my basket.
“Hey, Sadie,” Sophie interrupts, pulling along the man she found behind her. “Mason here is going to take me out for sushi. I hate to bail on our sister day.”
“Hi, Mason,” I say, assessing this . . .notman.Boy.He reminds me of Craig Miller in high school, who had dark circles under his eyes from staying up too late playing video games and would sneak out back after English for a cigarette.
Mason’s eyes slide up and down my body. “I could text a friend if?—”
I cut him off. “Mason, I’m an accountant with a mortgage. I really don’t think I’m the kind of woman your friend is looking for.”
“I mean, that’s kind of hot,” he replies in a tone that sounds drugged or still asleep.
I shake my head. “I’m not really doing the dating thing right now.”
“It’s not really dating,” he says.
“I’m not doing that either.” I reach out and squeeze my sister’s shoulder, then lean in and whisper, “Please be safe, Soph.”
