Chapter 18LARK #3
“Lark,” Miller says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Hello? Jesus Christ.”
She squints at me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’ve had a stroke or an orgasm in real time.
“I’m over here elbow-deep in your closet trying to resurrect your fashion choices, and you’re zoning out like some shirtless ghost of Boone just whispered dirty things in your ear.”
I sit up, legs dangling over the side of the bed, and watch as she waves a hand at my closet like it’s something indecent. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?” I ask, voice dry.
Miller stares into the abyss that is my wardrobe and sighs like she’s mourning a loss. “Your closet is hopeless. Like, Beyond Saving should do an episode on it.”
“It’s a dive bar, not the fucking Met Gala, Miller.” I stretch my arms over my head, spine popping, and yawn.
She glances back at me, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a hanger like she’s about to duel someone with it.
“Lark. Babe. Dive bar or not, you’re about to see the man who makes you all lovey and weird just by existing.
The least you can do is dress like you’re the hottest woman he’s ever laid eyes on. ”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re assuming I’m not already.”
Miller gives me a slow clap. “See, that’s the energy we need. Now let’s channel it into something other than leggings and shirts with Edward Cullen’s face on them.”
“Hey!” I look down at my shirt—black, soft from a hundred washes, with Edward looking vaguely tortured across the front. “I like this shirt. ”
She nods solemnly. “I know you do. That’s what concerns me.”
She starts going through the closet again, her fingers skimming through hangers, muttering under her breath. Then she freezes and pulls something out with a triumphant, a-ha sound, like she’s just unearthed treasure. “Oh my god! Denim on denim. Yes. You can have a full-on Britney moment.”
I narrow my eyes at the combo—tiny denim mini skirt, sleeveless denim top with buttons and a little tie at the waist. “You’re serious.”
“Dead.” She lays it out in front of me like an offering. “It’s hot. I’m talking Boone is going to forget his own name hot.”
I stare at it. I haven’t worn either piece since…well, way before Hudson. Before I was packing diaper bags instead of flirting with random men at dive bars. Before I was a mom who thought about nap schedules and school forms and whether or not a twelve-year-old needs probiotics.
Miller seems to sense my hesitation. She points at the outfit, then points at me. “Put. It. On. Where’s your curling iron?”
“Bathroom drawer, left side.” I stand, already shimmying out of my shorts, stepping into the skirt with a deep breath.
The denim is snug—like it remembers a younger version of me—but it slides over my hips without too much protest. I button the top, tying it at the waist, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
It’s a tight fit, no doubt, but Miller wasn’t wrong. The skirt hits just right, hugging my ass in a way that feels a little dangerous, and the top shows a sliver of my stomach, just enough to be interesting, while lifting my tiny boobs like they signed up for this. I tilt my head, taking myself in.
When Miller comes back in, holding my curling iron like it’s a sword, her eyes go wide. She stops in her tracks. “Oh, fuck yes! If Boone doesn’t propose tonight, it’s because he’s suffered some kind of brain injury.”
I laugh, shaking my head, but there’s a little buzz in my chest now—some mix of nerves and excitement. Maybe it’s the outfit. Maybe it’s Boone. Maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to feel like me again.
It’s stupid, probably, how something as simple as a denim skirt and a 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, I do —I just don’t look like I’m only someone’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 feel pretty . 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 flickers overhead 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’t like it. You’re just used to it.”
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 be good at this.
“Okay,” she says, stepping back. “Look.”