I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. “It’s fine. I don’t expect anything.”
She looked away, her eyes shining with something I didn’t want to name. “You should talk to him.”
“Maybe,” I said, but we both knew I wouldn’t. Not unless I had to.
She reached across the gap between us and put her hand over mine. Her skin was paper-thin, but her grip was still strong. “Promise me you’ll try.”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”
We sat like that for a while, the silence stretching until it felt like it might break us both.
Finally, I stood up. “I should go check on the fence,” I said, not sure why.
She smiled, and this time it almost looked real. “Bring me back a flower, if you see one. The garden’s all dead, but I still like to pretend.”
Seven
Lily
By the time I walked down Main Street to meet Caroline, the sun was so bright and low in the sky, I had to squint. I hovered at the corner across from the Whistle Stop Diner, hands deep in my pockets, trying not to draw attention by, you know, standing around like a lost puppy. Something I’d gotten used to feeling over the years and was trying to break myself of. The sidewalks were a patchwork of new and old—planter boxes overflowing with mums, a few vintage benches with the paint peeling in long, curled strips, and three separate sandwich boards touting the world’s best pie. I read each sign twice, pretending I was totally absorbed and not at all nervous.
I mean, I was meeting my friends. Why the heck would I be nervous? But my brain wouldn’t answer that question.
Caroline materialized out of nowhere, striding toward me with her auburn hair pulled into a glossy ponytail and a green trench coat flapping behind her like a superhero’s cape. She carried a tote bag covered in anatomical hearts, which was very on brand for a small-town doctor. She spotted me and gave a little wave, smile wide and earnest.
“There she is!” she called, making me flinch before I caught myself.
I managed a weak grin as she closed the distance, eyeing me with a mix of affection and medical concern. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had a patient who needed urgent reassurance that his cough was not, in fact, tuberculosis.”
“Sounds exciting,” I replied, my voice a little smaller than I intended. “Let me guess: old man Murrow?”
She laughed. “I cannot confirm or deny, but a certain someone brings his own stethoscope now, for second opinions.” She tugged me gently by the sleeve. “C’mon. The surprise is just down the block.”
I eyed her warily. “If it’s a flu shot, I already got mine.”
Caroline snorted. “Not this time. And you’re going to love it, promise.”
The promise didn’t help.
Two doors past the diner, we stopped in front of a storefront I’d never actually set foot in, “The Mane Event.” A hair salon, with cursive gold letters and a display of trendy shampoo bottles stacked like perfume. I froze.
“No,” I said, instantly shaking my head. “No way.”
Caroline’s eyes went soft, but her grip didn’t let up. “It’s not what you think. Eryn set this up and she’s waiting inside. You can’t bail now.”
“I really—” I started, but then caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. My hair was pulled into a messy, utilitarian bun, and my bangs were at that annoying length where they curled if you so much as looked at them funny. Worse, my arms—pale, thin, and still dotted with various shiny white scars—were bare in my short sleeves. I hugged myself tight, folding in on the panic. I didn’t fit in places like this. I’d cut my own hair my whole adult life. Mostly because my ex never let me spend money on myself unless it was for his benefit. And doing something to make others notice me would have enraged him, even more than the usual rage.
I sighed and shook my head. I might have felt out of place, but I hated that it was because of my ex, Jim. He took so much from me. I didn’t want him to take any more.
Caroline noticed my hesitation and I knew she understood. She slid her hand from my sleeve to my wrist, covering it gently. “It’s just us, Lil. No one’s gonna judge. And you deserve this.”
Before I could argue, the door burst open and Eryn appeared in a swirl of turquoise skirt and about six feet of patterned scarf. Her hair was loose today, wild and perfect, and she moved with the casual confidence of someone who’d never tripped on a curb in her life. She took one look at us and flung her arms wide, nearly clipping the door with her stack of beaded bracelets.
“Ladies!” she announced. “So glad you could make it. I’ve been dying to do this for weeks.”
I opened my mouth to object, but she was already ushering us inside, chattering about something called “glow-up therapy” and how the stylist was a literal magician. The interior was like a Pinterest dream—white walls, live plants, floor-to-ceiling windows so the whole place was flooded with afternoon light. The air smelled like grapefruit and warm sugar, with just a hint of bleach.
“Surprise!” Eryn sang, then lowered her voice. “Seriously, I wanted to do something fun for us. But also, confession: I need models for a Sunshine Acres promo shoot, and I can’t have us looking like sad, stressed-out zombies.”
