Page 69 of Racking Up Penalties
“Much.” I manage a wobbly smile, and it’s not just for show. Emma has this way of making the world stand still, even when it feels like it’s spinning out of control. It’s one of the many reasons I thank the stars she’s my best friend.
“Let’s tackle this together,” she declares with a determined nod, and I can’t help but feel a contagious sense of purpose.
Emma moves to my wardrobe, her slender fingers dancing over the hangers with purposeful grace. She pulls out a navy blue dress, the fabric flowing like water in her hands. Next, she grabs a soft cream sweater and a pair of dark jeans that hug all the right places or so I’ve been told. Each piece lands on the bed in a cascade of potential.
“See anything you like?” she asks, glancing back at me with an expectant raise of her eyebrow.
“Maybe? They’re both so…me, yet I’m not sure if they’re ‘meet his parents’ me,” I admit, peering at the collection. It’s like she’s plucked the essence of my style and laid it bare for inspection.
“Trust me,” Emma says with a confidence I envy, “any of these will say ‘I’m the girl your son is crazy about’ without trying too hard.”
“Thank you, Em.” I mean it more than she knows. “For this, and, well, for everything.”
“Anytime, Tessa.” Her smile warms me from the inside out.
“How about this one?” Her fingers graze a knee-length black dress with a frilly bottom. “It’s sophisticated but not too stuffy.”
I nod, considering her point.
“You’ll look put-together but still approachable.” A small smile plays on her lips, full of encouragement.
Her words are like a balm to the chaos in my mind. I reach for the ensemble, holding it up against myself, and glance at my reflection in the mirror.
“Okay, maybe this is a contender.” I concede, warmth blooming in my chest as I start to feel the ground beneath me again. Gratitude threads through my voice. “Thanks, Em. Seriously.”
“Of course,” she replies, every bit the anchor I need. She shifts through another pile, her green eyes lighting up when they land on a burgundy sweater dress. “What about this for the day you arrive?”
I tilt my head, thinking about walking up to Liam’s mom and hugging her in that dress. “Okay, yes.”
Together, we sift through more options, discarding a sequined cocktail dress and a pair of distressed jeans—too flashy, too laid-back. Each piece rejected narrows my search and sharpens my focus. With every passing moment, the indecision that had me spiraling recedes, edged out by growing confidence.
“Emma, you’re a lifesaver,” I say, half-laughing, half-sighing in relief.
“You’re the one with everyone’s dream closet. It was easy. The only reason it was hard for you is because you express yourself through your clothes and wanted to express the right thing.”
I grab the casual black dress for Thanksgiving dinner.
My smile bursts forth and I hold the outfit up to my chest, twirling slightly, relishing in the way it feels so very me—comfortable yet chic, a true reflection of who I am and who I want to be when I meet Liam’s mom.
Emma’s grin mirrors mine, her green eyes sparkling with pride. She rises from the bed, brushing off a stray thread from my chosen attire. “Tess, you’re going to knock it out of the park,” she says, her voice tinged with the warmth of unwavering support. “Honestly, it’s perfect. You look incredible in any of these pieces. Liam’s mom will see the amazing person you are.”
We turn our attention to the scattered array of clothes that still adorn my room like confetti after a party. My suitcase lies open, ready to pack.
We move in sync, Emma picking up a blouse while I fold a pair of dark-wash jeans.
“Remember the time we packed for that music festival?” Emma laughs softly as she neatly places a pile of socks into the corners of the suitcase. “We brought everything but the kitchen sink.”
A chuckle bubbles up inside me, memories flooding back—us dancing under the stars, voices hoarse from singing along to every song. “And we used maybe a third of it,” I concede.
“Hey,” Emma says, holding up a delicate necklace with a little silver charm. “Don’t forget this. Tristan got it for your last birthday, remember?”
With care, I drape the chain around my neck, the charm resting against my collarbone. I love this necklace specifically because it’s from Tristan.
“Thanks,” I murmur again, gazing at our handiwork.
“Looks like you’re all set,” Emma comments, zipping the suitcase closed with a satisfying sound. Her eyes meet mine, green depths filled with encouragement. “No matter what happens, just be yourself. That’s the person everyone loves.”
“Especially tricky when ‘everyone’ includes three incredibly different and equally charming guys,” I quip.
