Page 174 of Lost Then Found
It’s stupid, probably, how something as simple as a denim skirt anda top can shift something in your brain. I glance at myself again in the mirror, fingers absently smoothing the hem of the skirt, and I don’t look like someone’s mom. Or, Ido—I just don’t look like I’monlysomeone’s mom. That part of me is still there, still stitched into every choice I make, every second of my day. But this version of me—the one with a sliver of skin showing and long, lean legs—it’s like she was buried under a pile of Target leggings and forgotten about.
It’s easy, in motherhood, to lose track of yourself. To stop doing the small things that used to make you feel good—like throwing on a dress just because it makes you feel pretty, or putting on mascara for no one but you. It’s not intentional. You just…forget. Somewhere between the field trips and the late-night fevers and the grocery lists, you stop dressing for yourself. You start dressing for convenience. For comfort. For the kid who’s going to wipe ketchup or snot on your shirt anyway.
But now, standing here, I actually feelpretty. Sexy, even. Confident in a way I didn’t realize I’d been missing.
Miller claps her hands together with purpose, like she’s calling a room to order. “Bathroom. Now. We’re curling your hair.”
I turn to look at her, one eyebrow lifted. “Since when do you know how to curl hair?”
She shrugs, entirely unbothered, twirling the iron in her hand like she’s in a hair-styling duel. “I’ve gotten better.”
I laugh under my breath, following her out of the room. “Do you remember prom senior year? When you curled my hair and I looked like George Washington?”
She stops in the hallway and gives me a look—cool, expressionless. “Okay, first of all, I stand by that. It was voluminous. Second, you were the one who said you wanted ‘big curls.’ I delivered.”
“You delivered the Declaration of Independence,” I mutter as we step into the bathroom.
She points to the toilet seat without missing a beat. “Sit.”
I do, tugging the skirt down a little as I perch on the edge, the coolness of the tile pressing into the backs of my legs. The bathroom light flickersoverhead and for a second, it’s like I’m sixteen again, sitting in this exact spot while Miller rummaged through my makeup bag, insisting blue eyeshadow was “having its moment.”
She plugs in the curling iron, then glances at me in the mirror, her voice quieter now. “You know, the happiest I’ve ever seen you has been with Boone.”
I meet her eyes in the glass, something sharp and unexpected catching in my throat.
“I’m serious,” she continues, brushing her fingers through my hair. “It’s not just a fling. He’s your end game.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “That’s dramatic.”
Miller shrugs, twisting a section of my hair around her fingers like she’s sizing it up. “So is moving to a ranch and learning how to make sourdough while popping out fifteen children, but that’s happening for you, too. I can already feel it.”
That actually makes me laugh, full and surprised. “You’re mental. Like, you-need-to-be-in-a-ward-somewhere psycho.”
She tugs gently on my hair, holding the curling iron like a warning. “Sit still, or I swear I will burn you on purpose.”
She tugs another section of hair taut, winding it carefully around the iron like she’s been doing this professionally for years instead of her only real experience being that one time in high school when she nearly singed off my bangs. “Also,” she says casually, eyes on my reflection in the mirror, “when you marry Boone—because let’s be honest, it’s happening—I better be your maid of honor.”
I tilt my head toward her, just slightly, giving her a side-eye through the mirror. “Oh? You’re calling dibs already?”
Miller shrugs, unimpressed. “Of course. Who else would stand next to you and make passive-aggressive jokes through the ceremony?”
I grin. “I mean, Hudson would be pretty good at that.”
She scoffs, waving her hand. “Please. I’d be better dressed. And taller.”
“You’re five-two.”
“Five-four,” she says without missing a beat. “In heels. On level ground.With good posture.”
I snort. “Fine. You’ve got the job.”
“Good,” she says, inspecting a curl. “Don’t make me throw hands with a random cousin or aunt for the spot. I will.”
“Speaking of weddings,” I say, stretching out my legs and wincing as the denim skirt rides up, “what about your love life?”
“Non-existent. Exactly the way I like it.”
I raise an eyebrow at her in the mirror. “Please. You don’tlikeit. You’re just used to it.”
