Faith
December 31st
I haveno idea what I’m doing.
That’s the only coherent thought I can hold onto as Jet stands behind me in my childhood bedroom, flat iron in one hand, lip gloss in the other, declaring me her personal holiday project like she’s filming a makeover montage no one asked for.
“Sit still,” she orders, tugging gently on a curl that refuses to behave. “You keep fidgeting. You’re messing with my art.”
“I’m not fidgeting,” I lie, fidgeting.
Jet lifts one brow at me in the mirror. “Your knee is literally bouncing like a caffeinated rabbit.”
“That’s just… nerves.”
“Uh huh.” She smirks. “Because you’re excited about going somewhere fun.”
“Because I’m about to walk into a barn full of people I haven’t seen since high school for a New Year’s Eve party,” I correct, swallowing hard. “And I’m pretty sure half of them think I’ve been off living a glamorous life in the city when in reality I was organizing centerpieces for accountants in matching lanyards.”
She laughs. “Small towns don’t judge as much as you think.”
I give her a look.
“Okay,” she amends, “they do judge. Constantly. But usually with affection.”
“Affectionate judgment. Great.”
Jet finishes the curl and spins my chair so I face the mirror fully.
Oh.
She’s worked magic.
My hair spills over my shoulders in soft waves, glossy and loose. My eyes look bigger and warmer with the subtle makeup she applied, bronze and gold, like New Year’s fireworks. The dress she convinced me to wear. A deep green wrap dress I’d forgotten I owned, skims my waist and shows just enough skin to be daring by Buckhorn barn dance standards.
I look alive.
Not a runaway bride. Not a disappointment. Not the ghost I’ve been carrying around.
Just… me. Or something close to her.
My mom appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her mug of chamomile tea. Her smile softens everything inside me.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says as she presses her hand to her chest. “You look beautiful. That dress on you… it’s stunning. And your hair…”
My throat tightens. “Jet did everything.”
“I did,” Jet agrees proudly. “You’re welcome.”
Mom crosses the room and tucks a loose strand behind my ear like she used to before school dances.
“I think this is good for you,” she says gently. “Getting out. Being around people who know you. You’ve been so tense, honey.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur.
“No, you’re breathing again.” She kisses my cheek. “Go have fun. Even if it’s just for an hour.”
I nod because if I speak, I might cry.
