Page 105 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“That feels like a lot of pressure to put on one boutique,” I say.

“I couldn’t believe it either,” Hadley says. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

I should say no. I have exactly enough self-preservation left to know that letting five strangers adopt me mid-afternoon is not, strictly, part of the plan. But they’re already walking and chattering, folding me into the middle of their group. And something about the warmth of it makes it very hard to remember why I’d want to say no in the first place.

The boutique’s sign is just a discreet brass plaque, and there’s a woman behind the counter who lights up the second we walk in.

“You’re all back!” She comes around the counter in a suit so well-tailored it looks poured on, wearing heels that click in that satisfying ASMR way.

“I kept your purchases exactly as promised. And I put them in our signature leather garment bag so they’ll be safe for the ride home.”

“You’re an actual angel,” Paige tells her.

“This is our friend,” Taylor says. "She also needs a dress for the gala. Be gentle with her, she’s had a day.”

“Say no more.” The saleslady’s eyes go soft and assessing, sweeping over me once, twice, the exact opposite of Bitsy’s once-over. She probably can guess a dress size and give you a color analysis in five seconds flat. “I’m thinking black. Very elegant.”

“I was thinking black,” I say, surprised.

“I am never wrong.” She smiles like we’ve shared a secret. “I’ll get a room started for you.”

What follows is a blur I only half-remember clearly. My new acquaintances split off into five different directions. Hadley pulls something off a rack with a soft “Ooh, what about this?”

Lauren vetoes it before it even makes it to the fitting room.

Penny quietly produces a dress from somewhere in the back that seems custom-summoned by sheer will. I end up in a little curtained room, arms out, being handed things I would never have picked myself, and there is a full minute where I catch my own reflection, surrounded by strangers who are, inexplicably, invested in whether the neckline works. I muse, with genuine bewilderment, that I feel like the frumpy best friend in the makeover montage of a movie.

And I don’t hate it. That’s the part that catches me off guard. I really, really don’t hate it.

“What’s your name, dear?” the saleslady asks, stepping back to study me in the third dress.

“Erica.”

“Ah.” Something shifts behind her eyes. “Well. There’s no America without Erica.”

“That’s what I always say,” I tell her.

She disappears without another word and comes back two minutes later with a garment bag she must have had staged somewhere, waiting. I don’t argue. I just put it on.

The room goes quiet when I step out. Then Hadley makes a small, strangled sound. Then Lauren actually claps, both hands, like she’s at a wedding. Paige just points at me and says, “Yeah. That’s the one.”

I look in the mirror and something in my chest does a slow, unfamiliar flip. It’s perfect. I don’t have the words for it beyond that yet. So I just stand there in it and let five strangers tell me I’m beautiful.

Next thing you know, I think, I’ll be in a bedazzled bomber jacket, singing “You’re the One That I Want” at a tailgate. The thought should horrify me.

It doesn’t, though. That’s the unsettling part. I wouldn’t mind that so much.

Even though I truly am a terrible singer.

We walk back down the avenue together and find ourselves in front of the mean girl boutique I went into. All six of us burst through the door like it’s a dang saloon in a western and we’re some kind of gunslinger posse. Paige scoots to the front of our group and marches right up to the two snobby sales ladies.

“Remember her?” Paige says, pointing at me, her voice carrying across the entire floor. I see two heads pop out of the dressing rooms, curious about the clamor we’re making.

Bitsy’s face twists with recognition, then dread.

“You work on commission, don’t you?” Paige asks, sweet as poison.

A pause. Bitsy’s chin lifts, reluctant. “Yes.”