Chapter 65
LAST GOOD DAY
“If you hate it that much, just say so.”
Vincent doesn’t smile. Or laugh. Or give me anything as I step out of the alcove, one heel still bare, the hem of dress number ten swishing around my ankles. He’s standing where he’s been all afternoon, arms folded, eyes unfocused like he’s looking through me instead of at me.
“You already know my answer,” he replies.
I huff, stamping my single shoe against the tile with more force than necessary.
“Fine,” I mutter, already turning away. “Be difficult.”
I slip back behind the curtain, tugging the dress over my head. Fabric catches. I yank harder. When it finally releases me, I let it fall in a pool at my feet, then kick it next to the growing pile of rejects.
No one told me finding a dress for graduation would be so hard. We’ve been at this for almost three hours, and I’m fairly sure I’m going to collapse before we find something that works. Which won’t do us any good, considering the ceremony is tomorrow.
Dress eleven gets an instant shake of Vincent’s head before I’ve even reached the mirror.
“You didn’t even look.”
“I saw enough.”
Twelve is too frilly. Thirteen makes me look like a cupcake, all taffeta layers and ruffles.
Fourteen? He stares a little longer this time. Then his arms tighten across his chest, grip locking tight.
“Change.”
I tug the curtain shut so hard the fabric snaps against the rail.
When my gaze catches the mirror, I’m entranced by my reflection; at the slight differences that have crept in over the weeks.
My hair is lighter now, more honey brown than chocolate, with golden strands that catch the light when I tilt my head just right.
My nails have grown, now shaped into gentle peaks and painted a shimmering gold.
The physical changes are just the beginning. Everything feels different. My stance is stiffer, my chin tips higher, even my laugh rings clearer.
The girl who entered that testing room forty-nine days ago isn’t here anymore, and I can’t quite pinpoint when she slipped away. It’s unsettling, especially when there’s nothing I can do about it. Not while I’m here, at least.
Vincent’s noticed too, no matter how many times he’s assured me nothing’s changed.
I clear my throat to catch his attention through the curtain. “Do you like my hair better this color? It feels…I don’t know. More natural, I guess?”
“It works,” he says, so flat I can almost hear him shrug.
By dress fifteen, I’m half tempted to tell him to pick something himself. But as the tiered gold layers fall into place, I realize it’s perfect. The skirt swishes just right when I turn. The bodice sits as if it were made for me. I slip out from the curtain and meet his eyes in the mirror.
“This one,” I declare.
He finally smiles. It’s almost startling to see something so real. “Finally.”
I can’t help laughing. “Why are you looking at me like I’m the one who’s been rejecting everything? You vetoed fourteen dresses!”
He shrugs. “I wanted you to like it.”
“Okay, wait—so you’re telling me that if I pretended to like the first dress, you would’ve said yes two hours ago?”
“I could’ve,” he says, stepping forward to adjust the shoulder seam, “but then we’d have missed all this quality bonding time.”
His touch is light as he works, making sure the fabric sits right. But something lingers in his eyes, deep and sharp and undeniable. Like most things in this place, it’s gone before I can name it.
“Perfect,” he says.
Funny thing is, I believe him. I hold the skirt out for a little spin, turning to the next order of business.
“Okay so—what’s next? Shoes?”
Vincent’s eyes narrow like I just threatened to set something on fire. “Don’t start.”
“What? Shoes are important.” I lean one hip against the mirror frame, watching him pretend not to care. I toss a gesture toward the racks of shoes lining the wall. “Heels? Flats? Strappy? Barefoot?”
He tilts his head like he’s weighing the choice of a lifetime, then settles on: “Something you can walk in without tripping.”
“That’s boring.”
“It’s safe.”
The look I give him is all innocence, smothering the flutter in my chest. Not nerves for graduation; nerves for what comes after. The part where—with any luck—I won’t be here. Might as well make the most of our time today.
“Fine. Then you pick.”
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “God help me” before moving to the display table, scanning rows upon rows of shoes—a puzzle of footwear with detrimental consequences. His hand hovers over a champagne pair of wedges, then black flats, before he lands on soft gold heels.
“These.”
I take them, turning the heel in my palm. It’s low, low enough to still be able to run if the need arises.
Score.
I smile. “Subtle. Almost like you have taste.” Because I can’t very well say “Cool, thanks. These will make escaping a breeze.”
“I’d say the same about you, but…” His glance flicks to the pile of discarded dresses. I laugh, knowing all too well he was the one rejecting everything I dared to put on. I turn back to the mirror.
“All right, hair. What’s your vision, oh great stylist?”
His lips twitch, but he covers it with a shrug. “Up. Off your shoulders.”
I cock my head. “You like it better that way?” I keep my tone light, but I’m studying him in the reflection, hungry for any flicker that gives me something real. The pause is long, and I swear his eyes flash through every stage of grief.
He nods finally. “It’s how it’s meant to be.” He says, like it’s a fact. But there’s something hiding in the space between the words. Something cryptic.
It’s always cryptic with him, but this is extra-cryptic.
“Mm. Guess we’ll see.” I tug the shoes on and stand, giving him one last twirl. “Shoes pass the spin test.”
Vincent’s smile is faint but fixed, the kind you wear when you’re trying not to think too hard about what you’re seeing.
“Perfect,” he says again, voice laced with a dangerous amount of honesty.
While he moves to hang the rejects, I keep my eyes on the mirror. My reflection stares back in silk and shadow, hair catching the light like it remembers something I don’t.
The gold dress catches the light again. My fingers trace along the bodice, careful not to displace any of the rhinestones. I wish the skirt wasn’t so full. It may give me some trouble if I need to maneuver. I know better than to ask, but that’s never stopped me before.
“Do you think a shorter dress would be better?” I drop casually, smoothing the layers over my knees. “Easier to move in. Less tripping hazard.”
His brows furrow a little in the mirror. “For the stage? No. Longer’s better. Cleaner lines.”
I shrug. “Guess I just like being able to move.”
Something subtle shifts in his reflection. His shoulders tense. It’s there and gone in less than a breath, replaced by that cool, unbothered composure.
“You’ll move just fine,” he says, slipping the hanger back into place. I pivot away from him, my mind’s already cataloguing: the cardigan I asked for has deep pockets, the waist ribbon could be useful. Even the dress itself will work so long as I’m careful.
Vincent’s reflection crosses behind mine. He’s composed as ever, but I can feel him watching in the glass, noticing more than he’s letting on. I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
By this time tomorrow, they’ll think I’m theirs.
I’ll know better.