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Unless I want them to—need them to.
As a child, I mostly ignored my looks, simply smiling when people would coo and aww over the Preacher's beautiful daughter. Even in high school, when my body had grown from cute and innocent to curvy and distracting, I covered myself with respectable sweaters and loose-fitting pants. I stuck to my studies and threw myself into academics, hiding behind my braces and glasses.
I remained the Preacher’s innocent, golden child.
Until I didn’t.
Shaking my head, I turn away from the mirror and jump into the steaming shower. I shut my thoughts of the past off and rush through a quick routine, mentally going over my speech for tonight.
It has to be perfect.
I’m out of the shower in less than five minutes, and spreading lotion on my entire body before tugging my hair from its bun. I leave it down in my usual natural, chaotic curls that stop at the middle of my back.
Dropping my towel into the hamper, I slip on a pair of lacy white boyshorts and a matching bra. It takes some finagling to tuck my boobs into the demi-cups, and after a minute of shoving, I give up and dive into my walk-in closet.
I spend a ridiculous amount of time that I don’t have to pick out a dress.
It has to be perfect.
My eyes skim the vast collection that’s grown over the years—a mixture of my dresses and mama’s too-small ones. My fingers glide over the familiar silks and linens, only pausing for a moment to let my chest ache. My hands clench the material I grew up clinging to, but I release it before any memories can sink in.
I don’t have time.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve snatched my favorite sunflower dress from the hanger, needing the comfort now more than ever. A big grin tugs at my lips as I move to drag it over my head. It’s more bohemian than what I typically wear around here, but it’s me. It’s comfort and sunshine. It’s bright afternoons riding a bike downtown, or strolling through wildflower fields. It’s joy. I love it.
I pause.
It’s all wrong.
I turn back to the section of my Sunday best, knowing it’s what he likes to see me in.
Respectable. Demure. Appropriate.
And tonight is all about Isaac. He’d want to see me in one of my church dresses.
Except—
I let my sunflowers slip through my fingers as impulsivity pulses through me, washing away any rationality. Instead of falling into sad memories of Mama’s dresses and Daddy's laughter, I sink into the familiar recklessness that’s become my best friend lately.
Without letting myself question my clothing choice, I step into the form-fitting pastel green dress that hugs my exaggerated curves.
Remembering the way I caught him staring the other day, I tug my suppressed boobs up instead of hiding them away like I usually would. And in a final act of rashness, I rush through a full face of makeup.
Sliding on a pair of heels that are completely inappropriate for dinner at home with my stepfather, I shake my hands out and take one final look in my full-length mirror.
No one could confuse me for an innocent preacher’s daughter anymore. I’m all woman now, and it shows.
Biting my lip to stifle a smile, I skim my shaking hands down my body in a move that’s become second nature. Slow and effortless. Sensual.
I can do this.
I’ve just set the final bowl onto the table when I hear the familiar sound of tires crunching on gravel. I exhale a shuddering breath and switch the music coming from the little speaker to his favorite playlist. My eyes skim the house and dining room, doing one last check as I make my way to the front door.
Everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion, like I’m on the outside watching a movie of my life. In this moment, I’m greeting him as a wife would greet her husband, dinner on the table, and dressed to sinful perfection.
My hand grips the handle.
A smile forms on my mouth.
