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“You know, once you graduate nursing school, you won’t be able to use that as an excuse any longer. I’ll be the one trying to set you up with someone.”
“Trust me, I’ll be begging you by that point. And on that note, I’ve finished my workout and I have exactly eighteen minutes to shower, eat something, and run nine blocks to my class.”
“Good luck!”
I shut my apartment door behind me, glancing around at the almost cavelike studio they’re allowed to rent out for an astronomical amount while considering it a one-bedroom since technically there’s a room the size of a closet with a sliver of a window.
“I would also no longer have to share my living quarters with a mouse family.” I sigh, hanging my purse on one of my entryway hooks. My fridge groans, the hissing sound it’s been making lately growing even louder. I make a mental note to call the super for the fourth time.
I walk to the pantry cabinet, too afraid to open the fridge. I root around in my box of snacks, finding a half-broken granola bar and a pack of fruit snacks.
“A dress.” I walk to my closet, turning on the light and letting my eyes peruse the closet, popping a fruit snack in my mouth. They’re probably past their expiration but considering they’re just a mix of chemicals, I figure they can’t be too far gone. I finish the snacks, groaning when I realize I have nothing even close to being remotely slutty.
I toss the wrappers in my trash can before walking back over to the closet. I reach back as far as I can, tugging the clothes forward till I reveal the satin edge of a dress I completely forgot I owned. My fingertips reach the edge of the material just enough I tug it off the hanger and pull it out so I can see it. The silk of the material shimmers, and large red roses wind their way up the dress to the swooped neckline and black velvet straps. It’s stunning and I’ve been too afraid to wear it since the second I bought it from a resale shop nearly five years ago.
“It’s vintage.”
“Oh yeah?” I smile at the associate, the fifty dollars I have in my pocket reminding me that I cannot afford the seventy-five-dollar dress I’ve been staring at for two minutes.
“The lady who brought it in said it was her great grandma’s. Apparently, she was a jazz singer at The Green Mill back when Al Capone used to hang out there and it was a real speakeasy.” The girl shrugs. “You never know if people are telling the truth about their secondhand items, but it still makes for a fun story a lot of the time.”
“Sure does.” I stare down at the dress, an image coming to mind of myself wearing it, clutching the mic in my hands as I close my eyes and sing at The Green Mill.
“You should try it on.” She nods toward the curtain hanging limply on a wire in one corner of the shop.
I debate it for a second but shake my head. “Nah, I don’t even have enough for it anyway.” Besides, I tell myself, I don’t have curves in the right places for a dress like that, one that was clearly designed to accentuate an hourglass figure.
“How much do you have?”
“Hmm?” I look back up at the associate, my hand still resting on the dress hanger. “Oh, fifty.” I smile and look back down at the dress one last time. “Maybe in the?—”
“Take it,” she says.
“What?”
“It’s yours for fifty. You’ve been staring at the dress for fifteen minutes and you can’t take your hands off it. Clearly, you’re meant to have that dress.”
“I couldn’t,” I say, my hand holding it even tighter. But I did. I took the dress home, imagining the perfect situation in which I’d wear this dress, saving it only for that occasion… one that never came.
I place the dress on my bed, grabbing the hem of my t-shirt and pulling it overhead, tossing it aside. I undo my shorts, kicking them to the side and reaching for the dress. In five years of owning it, I’ve yet to try it on. At least I’ve filled out a little more since I bought it. Now that I’m not an awkwardly thin twenty-year-old, maybe it will fit better. I hold my breath, sliding the cool material up my thighs and over my hips, then I pull the straps over my shoulders, reaching around to pull the zipper up gently.
“Oh, wow.” I can’t deny how perfectly the dress fits my body or how much it accentuates the curve of my hip out from my waist. The velvet straps continue down beneath the breast, giving them a lift so I’m half spilling out of the scoop neck design. “Holy shit,” I gasp when my eyes reach my cleavage. The material ends just below my knee, and I run my hands over my hips, up to settle on my waist. I can’t take my eyes off myself; I’m completely unrecognizable. I pull my hair out from my bun, my curls tumbling over my shoulders. I flip my head over, fluffing my hair up and grabbing a red lipstick from my bathroom. I slick on the bold color, sliding my feet into a pair of vintage-looking pumps I found at Goodwill for six dollars.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Stella Porter.” I wave in the mirror, laughing at myself.
For the first time in a while, I feel giddy with excitement about going to Freddy’s tonight. I promise myself that when I get home tonight, I’m going to sit down and figure out how much I can save by taking on more shifts at the coffee shop and the extra shifts at Freddy’s. If I have any time left over after sleeping, I’ll see about picking up a third job with a local food delivery company.
I turn on some music, letting my body sway with the rhythm of Ne-Yo’s voice as I sing along. I dance into the bathroom, focusing on my makeup and hair while I warm up my vocals. Finally, all thoughts of Atlas Knight disappear.
The second I open my mouth to sing, all insecurities about my body being on display in this dress, everyone’s eyes on me, completely dissipate. I can feel the energy of the crowd tonight. It certainly helps that there are a few more people here, but it also feels different. I smile over at Clyde, his eyes bright as his fingers bounce across the piano keys. Maybe the time off is what the guys needed to come back refreshed. It feels like magic.
I glance toward the spotlight, the familiar silhouette coming into focus a few seconds later. This time, instead of looking away, I let my eyes stay focused on the mysterious stranger. He has to know that I can’t see him and I’m starting to think that’s exactly what he wants. I just can’t imagine why. I close my eyes, letting my hands slide over my body as I sing the words right to him. I imagine myself as his scorned lover, the woman whose heart he broke.
The song tells a forbidden love story about a woman who falls for a man with lips that call to her, a man who appeared in her life at the perfect time—a man whose heart is as dark as night.
Chapter 6
Atlas
