Page 52 of Take Me Home

“I keep hoping they won’t notice the dance payment, but I don’t know. Maybe that would mean things are really…” There was a soft shushing sound like he was rubbing his hands on something. She peeked through the crack in the door but could see only half of him, the hunch of his right shoulder, his hand in his hair.

“How’s it going in there?” he asked, his face lifting.

Hazel ducked back from the door. “Fine.”

The second dress gaped through the waist. She reached back to pull the material tighter, listening hard for Ash, but he’d fallen silent. If she were him, she’d know the perfect probing question to get him talking again, to draw from him the kinds of personal confessions he pulled from her. Ironic, she thought, that she was the psychology student here.

Because that would mean things are really—bad? That was what he’d been about to say, right? Were the medical bills from his father’s surgery not covered by insurance? Was Ash worried his father might be out of work for too long? Or was the problem even bigger than that?

“I’m sorry things are stressful,” she said, assessing her reflection in the mirror. With no time for tailoring, this dress wouldn’t work.

Ash gave a soft grunt, and she sensed that he wouldn’t say more.

Did he not trust her with whatever was bothering him? Or did he just not need another friend to confide in? Unlike Hazel, Ash was surrounded by nosy sisters and loving parents. He maintained relationships—with family, with his cheating ex, probably with all his old friends. She didn’t know how things had shaken out with Justin since that summer before college, but if either of them still held a grudge, she’d put her money on Justin being to blame. There were probably twenty people Ash could turn to before he would need her.

Theywerefriends now, though. They’d shaken on it. But she had to admit it felt mostly one-sided, their conversations so often coming back to her. With barriers up between herself and just about everyone else—Sheffield’s students, her classmates and lab team, even Sylvia more and more—she had been so starved for conversation, she couldn’t seem to shut her mouth around Ash, to balance their give-and-take. She’d been aware ofthe shift when Sylvia left, how every little thought she would have texted, every anecdote she would have passed along suddenly felt too trivial, tooneedyto send across so many miles. It had hit her clear as day: Sylvia had sailed on, and Hazel did not want to be a barnacle, clinging until someone eventually noticed and had to scrape her off.

It was hot in the tight stall. The air wasn’t circulating at all. Hazel didn’t want to try on the last dress. She fanned her face and chest, wiped the dots of sweat from her upper lip. Her hair was beginning to frizz at her temples, and she gathered it up off her neck into a quick, messy bun.

Of course, if she went back to her dad’s house without a dress, he’d think she hadn’t really tried. Grudgingly, she tugged the third dress from the hanger and stepped into it, prepared for another bad fit.

But this one slipped over her hips without a hitch. The zipper in the back went up easily. She twisted in the mirror, and the slightly flared skirt draped over her knees in an objectively pleasing way. Her bra straps showed, so she elbowed out of it under the dress. Better. The lacy overlay and wide straps had seemed a little stuffy on the hanger, but she liked the texture, the pretty contrast against her skin. The real selling point? It had pockets.

“I guess we can cross ‘find a dress’ off the list.”

“Yeah?” Ash said. “You gonna show me?”

She blew at a hair tickling her nose and clocked her reddening cheeks in the mirror. As well as the dress fit her—and the low, sweetheart necklinewasflattering—the rest of her looked wild, skin shiny, hair already slipping from the hasty bun. “Nope. I’m just going to ch—”

No.Hazel twisted, trying to see her back. She tugged the zipper again. It was stuck. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She twisted the other direction, switched hands, bounced as she tugged. The zipper wouldn’t budge. It wouldn’t even go back up. It was stuck exactly where it was, two inches from the top of the dress.

Her fingers kept slipping on the pull. She pressed her palms to the cool metal of the wall, then her forehead.Do not panic. Just because there’s no air in here, and the dress is stuck, and the heat is suffocating—

“Haze?”

God, she couldn’t even relish the nickname. She blew out a defeated sigh. “I’m stuck.”

“The door?” The handle jiggled, and she slapped her palm against the door even though it was locked.

“The dress. The zipper is stuck. I can’t get it off.”

“Oh,” he said.

“I’mstuck,” she repeated, her voice embarrassingly shrill. She could see it. Someone was going to have to cut her out of this dress, and it was the only one in the entire store that was the right size and color. Maybe it wasn’t the right size, though, because now it was getting hard to breathe.

“Do you want me to find a salesperson?”

“I want you to come in here and get me out of this thing.”

Did she? Too late. She’d said it. And now her insecurity about her wild hair and perspiration seemed trivial. Now, she was full-on panicking, and if she didn’t get a real, complete breath of air, she was going to have to bolt from this stall and throw herself into the last sparse remains of snow outside.

There was a long silence on the other side of the door.

“Asher, for the love of God—”

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