Chapter 7 Cinderella Needs A Dress
CINDERELLA NEEDS A DRESS
ALICE
“It’s my lunch break. Wanna grab a coffee?” Harley asks.
I stop tapping my pen on my sketchbook. There are fifty little splats of ink on the page from my mindless patter, and I quietly curse as I click it closed and look up. Harley’s got this smushed grin on his face, the kind that says he’s amused and trying to hide it.
“Sure,” I say, shoving my chair back and gathering my things. His question isn’t a surprise; we’ve developed a mutual routine in the near two weeks since our beach day.
I’ll come to the library in search of inspiration—though it’s mostly a farce.
I just want to get out of the house, and the views are nice here.
The views being quick glances of Harley’s white hair between bookshelves, and the infuriating wrinkles on his cardigan sleeves that he pushes up and pulls down as the bone-chilling AC ebbs and flows.
I’ll take some notes, space out, and sketch my sub-par ideas for the gallery until his lunch break, at which point he’ll ask me to grab a coffee. Then we’ll walk to Mad Mug in comfortable silence.
He never tries to fill the space with small talk. It’s delightful.
Even now, as his shoulder bumps into mine—since I can never manage to walk in a straight line—Harley sighs contently, gaze far off.
And when we get to Mad Mug, Jessa will comp our drinks, beaming every time we walk through the door, and chat with us between our bites of pastries and sips of coffee.
It’s been pleasant, to exist with people who aren’t aware of my past. There’s a freedom to our interactions. I don’t have to tiptoe around them—they don’t know me well enough to recognize the grief that undercuts the laughter they pull from my lungs.
Still, I relish my newfound energy. Every text, every surprised smile, every blush that rushes to my cheeks from their playful banter, makes me feel alive.
For so long, all I’ve done is survive. This is a new kind of progress for me.
I wanted to tell Steph and Erica all the details, but when they called to check in the day after the beach, I couldn’t get the words out. I’d only mentioned that I’d met some nice neighbors.
What if they take this progress and run with it? What if they expect me to jump into a serious relationship? What if their eyes light up with hope, and I disappoint them when I can’t reach the arbitrary milestones of ‘healing’ they think I should be hitting by now?
They don’t get it. This kind of grief isn’t something you get over in a year, or two, or ten. It’s something that lives with you forever.
I’ve come to realize that healing is more a matter of figuring out how to survive, then re-learning how to live, and then re-discovering how to love. I think I’ve got step one down. I’m currently working on the second. Don’t know if the third is in the cards for me.
We stop at Mad Mug’s door, and Harley pulls it open for me. He sweeps his hand forward with a slight bow and a dramatic flourish, to which I roll my eyes and step into the café.
“Thanks,” I say, joining the end of the queue. Harley follows, nestling into me, chest brushing against my shoulder. His head lowers, lips so close to my ear that his breath is a warm puff on my skin.
“You always do that,” Harley says.
“Do what?” I ask, side-eyeing him.
“Roll your eyes when I hold the door open for you.”
“I say thank you.”
“Sure, but you also roll your eyes. Why is that?”
I shift to face him fully with a quirked brow—does he really not know?
“I roll my eyes because you do it the same way every time, like you’re some gallant knight sweeping your arm out for a lady,” I explain, stepping forward with the line. “It’s funny.”
“But you roll your eyes…” His brows knit together as he steps forward to match me, slowly piecing his thoughts together. “…and that’s how you show your amusement?”
I knock my knuckle into his chest twice. “You’re learning.”
Harley holds my gaze, and I shift away—though I’m too slow, and my knuckles drag down his shirt and snag on the buttons as they return to my side.
The damage is done. It’s not much. Not anything, really. It’s only the first time I’ve initiated any sort of touch with him outside a quick hug hello or goodbye. What’s a playful graze of a knuckle over cotton in the grand scheme?
But sometimes, small moments are big ones. Time slows, tension grows—and connection isn’t one of those things you can take back.
Jessa huffs as she takes the empty seat next to Harley, dropping his sandwich on the table. “Here. A new combo. If you give it your stamp of approval, I’ll put it on the menu.”
Harley quickly drops his book and picks up the thick toasted bread, marked with the dark lines of a panini press.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he curses after taking a bite, holding his mouth open to cool down the food.
“Yeah, no shit,” Jessa says, shooting me a look that screams men are stupid.
I snort and tear off a piece of my croissant to pop in my mouth. Buttery, flaky goodness explodes on my tongue.
“I’ve been meaning to ask… are you ever going to let us sneak a peek at that sketchbook of yours?
” Jessa asks, plopping her chin on her hand.
Her bright amber eyes dart to my bag, where my sketchbook pokes out over the edge of the canvas.
“You said you do portraits, but you never showed us any.” She leans forward, whispering, “Are they risqué or something?”
“What?” I choke on my croissant, coughing and slamming my fist against my chest to clear it. “No. Nothing like that.” I dust my fingers off on my shorts. “I just get weird about my sketchbook.”
I don’t let anyone see the raw ideas I throw around for my pieces.
But there’s something missing from my most recent sketches that I can’t name.
Like memories that don’t get all the details right.
They’re exploratory, and while the emotions they evoke within me are correct, they feel more like the path to something than the final something.
It’d be embarrassing to show them an unfinished thought. And I don’t want them seeing my stalker-level renditions of them.
“I can show you some of my old stuff,” I offer, grabbing my phone. I open my saved album and pass it off. “Here.”
Jessa lays the phone flat on the table and her and Harley’s heads knock together as they look.
“These are beautiful,” Jessa says.
“Thanks,” I say, quietly.
Harley eats while Jessa swipes through the photos, and I let my gaze drift off through the window while I wait for them to finish.
My oversized croissant is gone by the time my phone rings, cutting through the silence at the table.
“Steph is calling,” Jessa says, holding out the phone to me.
“Shit, I should take that.” I snatch it and swipe over the accept button. I tuck the phone to my ear. “Hey, I’m out. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, no emergency—wait, you’re out?” Steph asks, and I wince, curling towards the window for a false sense of privacy.
“I’m at a café,” I whisper.
“Oh. Okay. Well, I need a favor,” Step says. “You know the Carlton’s Young Artists Gala?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, there was a snafu with our Aruba flights and now we can’t go.”
“To Aruba or to the gala?” I ask. “Is your regular sitter not available for Tito? I can come get him and watch him at my—”
“No, no, the cat is fine,” she says. “I need you to go to the gala in my place.”
“I’m sorry?” I whisper-yell, tucking even closer to the window. I can feel Jessa and Harley’s attention on me like spotlights. “What do you mean go in your place?”
“I don’t have anyone else to give my tickets to and I can’t ruin these relationships by no-showing. You know this world and how to schmooze. All you have to do is show face, make a little donation, and talk me up to whoever says hello. And it’s for a good cause!”
“I don’t have a dress,” I mutter.
I do have a few formal gowns at the back of my closet from Navy Balls, but I can’t bear to put them on again. Or donate them.
“Then go to the mall? I’m sure there’s something discounted from prom season.”
“Steph.”
“Alice.”
We pause, and I know if we were in person we’d be having a staring standoff. As much as I want to stick my feet in the dirt and continue to say no, I know I’ll be the one forfeiting this match. They’ve helped me so much the last few years. I can’t say no the one time they ask me for a favor.
“Fine,” I groan. I quickly dig into my bag for a pen and grab a napkin from the dispenser. “What are the details?”
“Next Thursday, 7:00 p.m., Gotham Hall. I’ll forward you the email. Oh, and you can bring a plus one!”
“Got it,” I mutter, pen scratching over the brown napkin. “I’ll make it work.”
“Thank you for this,” Steph says, a hint of somberness filling her tone.
My pen swirls between my fingers, and a doodled flower starts to grow from the napkin’s edge. “Of course, I’m always here for you guys when you need me.”
“And we’re always here for you,” she says. “Cool?”
“Yeah. I’ve got to get back to my coffee,” I say.
“God-forbid your latte runs cold.”
“It’s a cappuccino today.”
Steph chuckles over the phone. “Bye Ali.”
“Bye Steph.”
I hang up and slowly turn back to Jessa and Harley. Harley seems concerned, while Jessa has mischief lighting up her expression.
“Who’s Steph?” she asks, with a sly smile.
“My agent,” I say, tucking my phone in my bag. “And one of my best friends.”
“What did she want?”
“To ruin my week.” I tongue my cheek. “I’m now attending a gala next Thursday in the city, but I don’t have a dress.” I scoot my chair closer to the table, muttering under my breath, “Nor do I have anyone to go with.”
“A gala? I didn’t know you ran in such fancy circles,” Jessa drawls. “You can borrow a dress from me.”
“It’s okay. I’ll try to find one at the mall…” I grimace, knowing the nearest mall with suitable options is a forty-minute drive away.
“Nonsense,” Jessa says. “That shit’s expensive and I have the perfect one that I haven’t worn yet.”
“But you’re so much taller than me.”
“Easy fix.” Jessa waves a hand in the air. “Ori can hem it.”
“Is that the best idea?” Harley whispers, eyes going wide behind his glasses.
“It’s time,” Jessa says, patting his shoulder. At my confused expression, she clarifies, “Ori’s our third housemate. He’s also the proud owner of Curious Suits & Curiouser Tailoring. We’ll pull a favor to get it altered for free.”
“Oh,” I say, grabbing my coffee and taking a sip. The milk has cooled to room temperature. Bleh. “You haven’t mentioned him a lot.”
Harley cringes. “He’s sort of a recluse.”
“More than me?” I joke.
“Putting it lightly.” Harley matches my awkward smile.
“Is he also…” I waggle a finger between the two of them. “You know?”
Harley’s cheeks tint—he flushes so easily, it’s crazy. And it’s such a pretty peach. He quickly diverts his attention to his sandwich.
“No…” Jessa says, though the word comes out more disappointed than firm.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to catch that there’s unsaid history to unpack, but I don’t pry, giving them the same courtesy they have given me.
“Anyway, you’ll take me up on my offer?” Jessa asks.
“Um, sure.”
“And I assume your agent gave you two tickets?”
“Yeah…”
Jessa smacks Harley on the shoulder. “He’ll take you.”
“What?” Harley squeaks around a bite of his sandwich.
“Oh no, it’s fine,” I rush. “I can go alone.”
“Alice, I’ve known you for what, three weeks, now?” Jessa says, hands pressed flat on the table. “That’s enough time to for me to know you’re fully capable of soloing it. But just because you can doesn’t mean you should have to.”
The words strike something deep in me, and I meet Harley’s eyes over the rim of my room-temperature cappuccino.
The red-brown color of comfort glows in the afternoon light, and they crinkle in that way eyes do when you smile only with them.
A secret conversation floats between our gazes, it’s a reassurance on his part, that if I said no again he’d back me up.
At the same time, a laughable camaraderie forms as we weigh the trouble of disobeying Jessa’s demand against the trouble of breaking free of our comfort zone.
“It could be fun?” Harley whispers.
It’s the tentative hope lifting the end of his sentence that pushes me to say, “Okay.”