Page 175 of Lost Then Found
She shrugs again, unbothered. “I’m serious. It’s not sad, Lark. Not everyone wants the love story.”
I study her face, the way her hands move quickly and efficiently through my hair, and I believe her. Mostly. “So you’d never get married?”
“No,” she says instantly, not even blinking.
“Why not?”
Miller breathes through her nose, picking up another section of my hair. “Marriage is a contract people enter into when they’re still drunk on infatuation. They think it’s about love, but it’s really about obligation. Everyone starts off thinking they’re the exception, that they’re soulmates. And then five years in, they’re strangers splitting up who gets the dog and the Le Creuset.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, cool and steady. “I like my space. I like my closet. And I don’t want to spend my weekends pretending to care about some distant cousin’s gender reveal or fighting over beard trimmings that are constantly left in the sink.”
I hum, still watching her. “You know I’m going to laugh when you come to me with a ring one day.”
She lets out a laugh, dry and sharp. “If that ever happens, check for signs of brain damage. Or a tracking device. Actually—just assume I’ve been abducted by a hot, emotionally manipulative cult leader.”
I shake my head, amused, as she gives the last curl a final twist before switching off the iron. She rakes her fingers gently through my hair, loosening the curls with more care than I expect, like she’s trying to begood at this.
“Okay,” she says, stepping back. “Look.”
I glance up at my reflection, expecting something borderline ridiculous, but—no. It’s…good. The curls are soft and loose, like I woke up this way, like I didn’t just sit on a toilet while my best friend performed a minor miracle on my head.
“Well,” I murmur. “I sure as shit don’t look like George Washington.”
Miller gives a small, satisfied nod. “Growth.”
She picks up my mascara and bronzer from the counter, pressing them into my hand. “Do something with your face. Minimal effort, maximum effect. Let’s not undo all my good work.”
As I stand and move to the mirror, she crosses her arms. “What shoes are you wearing?”
I point to my favorite white cowgirl boots. “Those.”
Miller turns to me with mild horror. “You’re joking.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
She sighs, deeply pained. “This is my burden to bear.”
I grab the eyelash curler off the counter and give my lashes a few quick presses, leaning toward the mirror like that half-inch makes all the difference. Miller’s standing behind me, watching like a coach evaluating my form, arms crossed, mouth tight, like she’s resisting the urge to take over.
I swipe on mascara, careful not to blink too fast, then dust some bronzer over my cheeks and forehead. I’d been blessed with naturally clear skin, so I never bother with foundation or concealer. A little blush for color, clear gloss for shine, and I’m done. Easy. Fast. Low maintenance, which is how I’ve lived for the past twelve years because there hasn’t been time for anything else.
I pick up the hairspray and spritz it lightly over the curls Miller’s meticulously sculpted. They fall around my shoulders in soft waves, looking far more intentional than anything I’ve done with my hair in a decade. I take a step back and look at myself fully.
Holy shit.
Miller moves beside me, her gaze flicking from my reflection to my actual face, then back again. “You look like the girl who had every guy in school obsessed with her sophomore year.” She pauses, then adds dryly, “Only hotter. No braces. Slightly less feral.”
I snort and pull her into a dramatic, over-the-top hug, smacking a loud kiss to her forehead like I’m sealing a blessing. “You’re a fucking gem, Mills.”
She rubs at the spot immediately, face twisted in disgust. “Ew. Never do that again.”
“You loved it.”
“I tolerated it,” she says, but I catch the corner of her mouth lifting just enough to give her away.
I walk back into the room to pull on my boots, bending to zip them while Miller watches like I’ve just admitted to a crime. Her voice cuts through the silence, high with disbelief. “You’re sure you don’t want to borrow any of the heels I brought?”
I glance up at her. “What part of ‘dive bar’ are you not understanding?”
