“You think I should reward you for not screwing up?” I reply, a brow arching in disbelief.
Her smile falters. “You think I can’t handle this?”
“I think you have a track record,” I answer evenly. “And it’s not good.”
Her shoulders tense, her pace quickening. “I made one mistake.”
“You leaked confidential notes,” I remind her, flat and unflinching. “That’s not small. That’s not a parking ticket or a late assignment. That’s the kind of mistake that follows you into every interview, every courtroom, every time someone types your name into a search bar. And then you added breaking and entering to the list, along with theft.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes blazing. “I didn’t steal him.”
I look down at Waffles, then back at her. “He’s here. That’s all that matters.”
She swallows hard, gripping her jacket tighter. “You don’t get it.”
“I get it,” I cut in, my tone sharp but calm. “You wanted him, so you took him. And I covered for you. Which means your problem is now my problem, and that’s why I ask questions you don’t want to answer.”
She falls silent, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. For a few beats, the only sound is the leash jingling as Waffles trots along.
Then, quieter, almost defensive, “You make it sound like I’m some liability you’re stuck with.”
I glance at her, my voice flat. “That’s exactly what you are.”
Her head jerks, wounded, but before she can fire back, I add, “The only difference is I’ve already factored that in.”
Chapter Twelve
Tessa
This dress costs more than my car insurance, my therapy co-pay, and the late fees I still owe the library.
I shift under the fluorescent lights, which are clearly designed by sadists to expose every pore, and ingrown hair. I tug at the straps, trying to decide if they’re supposed to cut off circulation or if that’s just a fun little bonus feature.
My reflection stares back at me with that same wide-eyed panic I get when the barista asks if I want to try almond milk instead of oat. Like, no. Don’t push me. I’m already hanging by a thread, and apparently that thread is sewn into a $1,200 cocktail dress.
“Can I help you?”
The saleswoman’s voice cuts in from behind the curtain, smooth and overly polite.
I freeze. Because one: I wasn’t expecting company during my mental breakdown. And two: I can practically hear the judgment dripping from her perfectly glossed lips.
“Nope,” I say, too quickly. “I’m good.”
There’s a long pause. The kind that says she’s already written me off as the girl who’s going to sweat all over the merchandise and then put it back on the rack.
Finally, she adds, “Those dresses are usually pulled by appointment. We don’t want pieces mishandled before fittings.”
Mishandled. Like I’m a toddler with sticky fingers instead of a grown woman with a degree and a mountain of debt.
“I wasn’t—” I start, but she isn’t finished.
“If you’re more comfortable, we do have a clearance section in the back. Much more… accessible.”
Accessible. My throat tightens. Translation: You don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this dress.
My eyes flick to the mirror, and suddenly, all I see is the hoodie I shoved into my bag, the messy bun that’s collapsing, the girl who doesn’t know the first thing about designer names or luxury boutiques. I see someone trying too hard to wear a life that doesn’t fit.
I tug the zipper down, skin hot with humiliation, and retreat to the corner of the dressing room. The saleswoman has already moved on, probably calculating her commission on someone who doesn’t flinch when the numbers start with a comma.
