Page 68 of Ruthless Edge

I count eleven dresses on various hooks and the floor and one draped over the top of the door because we ran out of hooks, and I'm standing in number twelve trying to remember what I was looking for when I started this.

A gala dress and an auction dress. Right.

We’d been through half of the expansive store in the mall already. But, apparently, we still weren’t done because most of the dresses didn’t look quite right.

And then I look in the mirror.

It's deep green, fitted through the body without being aggressive about it, with a neckline that works and a hem that hits just above the knee. Exactly as beautiful as Paige had described it. I stand there in the too-bright fitting room light and think: I look beautiful.

The thought arrives before I can stop it and sits there, clear and simple, and for maybe four seconds I let it.

Then the second thought arrives, which is, do I actually look beautiful, or am I just grading myself on a curve? I've lost a significant amount of weight over the last two and a half years. My frame of reference for my own body is a moving target. Maybe I think I look good because I'm comparing myself to who I was and not to any objective standard. Maybe if Laura stood beside me in this dress I'd see immediately that there's a version of beautiful and then there's whatever I'm doing.

And the auction is in a week.

I'm going to stand on a stage in front of a room full of people who are deciding, with money, how much they want to spend on an evening with me. What happens if I walk out there and nobody bids? What happens if there's a pause, the kind where everyone can feel it, and I have to stand there while the auctioneer waits?

I know Emma, Rory, and Paige will be bid on. I also know they got their dresses weeks ago, and that they’ll look incredible. I have to be able to stand next to them and not feel like a fool.

"Emma." Paige's voice from outside the door. "I can hear you thinking. Come out."

"I'm not ready."

"Come out or I'm coming in."

I open the door.

Paige's hand goes to her mouth and she gasps. Then she steps forward, grabs both my arms, turns me sideways then straight-on and sideways again, which I allow because she’s so excited.

"This is the one!" she says.

"Paige—"

"Emma. This is the auction dress. We're done."

"I haven't tried the other two yet."

"We don't need the other two. Look at you." She turns me back toward the mirror and stands beside me and points. "That color. Your eyes. The way it fits your waist. We're done. I'm going to cry."

"Please don't cry in a store."

"I'm not crying, I'm appreciating." She looks at my reflection. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"You look upset when you should be excited."

I look at my own face in the mirror. I do look upset. "I can't always tell anymore," I say. "Whether I actually look good or whether I just think I do because I'm comparing myself to before."

Paige goes quiet for a second. Then she turns me to face the mirror straight on and puts her hands on my shoulders.

"Look," she says. Not a suggestion. An instruction.

I look.

"You're beautiful," Paige says. "Not beautiful for someone who lost weight. Not beautiful compared to who you were. Beautiful. Right now. In this dress. Full stop." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "And I need you to stop letting Laura be the thing you measure yourself against, because Laura is doing that on purpose and you're letting her win."

I don't say anything.