Page 109 of Josephine and Clay

“One hour,” I say.

She lights up.

“One hour,” I repeat firmly. “No forced socializing. No making me dance with anyone.”

“Fine.”

“And if I say I want to leave, we leave.”

“Yes.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“And no ridiculous makeover.”

She hesitates.

My eyes narrow. “Penny.”

“Define ridiculous.”

Apparently, Penny’s definition of not ridiculous includes curling my hair, applying mascara with the focus of a surgeon, and making me try on three dresses in my bedroom while she sits cross-legged on my bed eating crackers from my pregnancy stash.

“You know those are mine,” I say from the bathroom.

“You have sixteen sleeves. I’m supporting you by taste testing.”

“You're stealing.”

“You’re glowing,” she calls.

I stare at my reflection another second before answering. “I’m sweating.”

“That too.”

I look at myself in the mirror and try to decide whether I recognize the woman staring back.

The dress Penny eventually chose is soft and dark green, with tiny cream flowers scattered over the fabric. It’s simple. Not too short. Not too tight. It ties at the waist, which Penny says is flattering, and I say is practical because I can loosen it if nausea makes me hate all clothing.

My hair is down for once, chestnut waves brushing my shoulders instead of twisted into its usual low bun. My freckles stand out across my nose and cheeks. My eyes look too big.

I look…

Soft.

That unsettles me more than it should.

I step out.

Penny gasps dramatically.

“No,” I say.

“You look beautiful.”

“I said no.”