Page 6 of The One Night Dash
Because my normal is corduroy trousers the color of spiced cider, worn soft at the knees, and a cranberry turtleneck that fits like it was made to curl up in with a novel. My boots are weathered leather, the kind that have walked me through rain-slick sidewalks and over bookstore dust without complaint. My hair’s half-up, twisted with a tortoiseshell clip because I was restocking the front table not thirty minutes ago, and around my neck hangs the gold pendant I found at a Chelsea flea market, the one I wear like a talisman. It’s all comfort, all Pembrooke Books—warm, familiar, exactly me. Which is why slipping into a floor-length silk gown feels like trying on someone else’s life.
“I think I have just the thing.”
She disappears into a row marked “Evening” and comes back with a floor-length emerald-green gown. The silk is liquid in herhands, bias-cut with a low back and cap sleeves. It’s the kind of dress Lauren would never pick for me, which is precisely why I like it.
“It’s vintage Halston,” she says, like that should mean something to me. “Late seventies. The color will make your skin look like you spent a week in the sun. Try it.”
I take it into the fitting room, my pulse stupidly fast for someone who isn’t auditioning for a part in her own life.
After peeling off my clothes, I slip it on, the fabric cool against my skin. When I turn toward the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The dress hugs my waist, skims over my hips, and drapes like it’s known me forever.
I grab my phone before I can overthink it and hit the FaceTime group chat.
Sofie answers first, her voice sharp with curiosity. “You found something.”
Nalani’s and Claudia’s faces pop up seconds later, the screen splitting into familiar chaos.
I step back so they can see all of me in the mirror. “Okay. You ready?”
Claudia’s jaw drops. “Oh my God, Noelle.”
“Shut up,” Nalani says, grinning. “That’s it. That’sthedress.”
Sofie leans closer to her camera, eyes narrowing in appraisal. “You look like … like you’ve been holding out on us. Your tits are amazing.”
I laugh, shaking my head, but I can’t hide the way my cheeks hurt from smiling. “So … I should buy it?”
Three voices in unison: “Buy it.”
I end the call and take a few more moments. I run my hands down the sides, smoothing the silk. For a second, I’m not the girl on the sidelines. I’m not the sweet bookstore owner who keeps her curves a secret and tucks her love of naughty paperbacks between Tolstoy and Austen so customers have to dig for them.I’m not even the almost-something to a boy who never saw me that way. I’m the woman who walks into a wedding and makes people wonder why they didn’t notice her sooner.
The saleswoman peeks in. “Well?”
I give her the kind of smile you wear when you know you’ve got it right. “I’ll take it.”
I floatout of Designer Revival on cloud nine and a half, garment bag swinging lightly from my fingers. I’ve got the dress.Thedress. My face actually hurts from smiling, and I don’t even care if strangers on Madison think I’ve lost it.
And then—impact.
Something hits me in the side, hard enough to jolt me forward. My almond mocha—still half full—slips in my hand. The world slows to an awful drip-drip-drip as I watch coffee seep into the creamy paper garment bag.
I don’t even look up. My entire focus is on the growing brown bloom spreading across the perfect, untouched dress inside. My stomach drops as my mind races. IknowI have a book back at Pembrooke—Mrs. Lillian’s Complete Guide to Stain Removal and Fabric Sorcery—but right now, all I can see is four-hundred-dollars’ worth of vintage Halston marinating in espresso.
“Oh my God,” the culprit says, breathless.
I still don’t look up. I pinch the bag away from me, like that will magically reverse the damage. My mind is already flipping to the chapter on “Coffee vs. Silk.”
Step one: Don’t panic.
Step two: Too late.
And then?—
“You should watch where you’re walking,” she says.
My head snaps up.
She’s tall, rail-thin, model-beautiful in that over-edited way. Glossy hair, glossy lips, glossy contempt in her eyes. And she’s looking atmelikeI’mthe problem. She’s pure Lauren Peters energy with an extra side ofmean girl who’s never opened her own door.
