Chapter 19 Empowering Others While Personally Spiraling
AMANDA
Today’s look says “successful woman who has her life together and definitely didn’t spend last night getting wine-drunk and fighting with an automated boyfriend.
” Pink blazer, black cigarette pants, heels that could double as weapons.
My hair’s in a sleek ponytail, makeup flawless, and I’m carrying enough coffee to power a small city.
Raven emerges from her Uber looking somehow both punk and adorable. All-black everything, dramatic makeup and eyelashes, but wearing a silver wig that softens the entire look. She’s got her camera bag slung over one shoulder.
“You’re disgustingly cheerful for someone who was having a breakdown less than twelve hours ago,” she observes.
“I’m channeling my inner turmoil into productive energy,” I announce, because if you can’t turn your emotional disasters into volunteer work, what’s the point of having them?
“Great outlook, sis.”
We head inside, past the faded motivational posters and fluorescent lighting that scream “nonprofit budget.” The main room’s been transformed into a pop-up boutique wonderland, courtesy of the Bennett sisters.
Clothing racks line the walls, sorted by size and style.
Shoes are organized in neat rows. Accessories are displayed on folding tables.
Dress for Success is our monthly thing, helping women who are transitioning back into the workforce pick out interview outfits and build confidence.
It started as Raven’s idea, something about “using our fashion powers for good instead of just enabling capitalism.” I agreed, because helping people feel powerful in their clothes is one of my superpowers.
Plus, it’s the one place where my obsession with designer everything serves a purpose beyond my own vanity.
“Ladies!” Diana Walsh, the program coordinator, waves us over with the enthusiasm of someone who’s had too much coffee and not enough sleep. “Thank God you’re here. We’ve got fifteen women coming in today, and half of them need complete makeovers.”
“Complete makeovers are my specialty,” I say, already eyeing the clothing donations with a critical fashion editor’s gaze. “Though I use the term ‘makeover’ loosely. More like ‘revealing the badass that was already there.’ ”
Raven nods and pulls out her phone to document the setup for her followers. “My audience loves the behind-the-scenes content.”
“Just remember—” Diana starts.
“No faces without permission, focus on the clothes and the process, make it about empowerment, not charity,” Raven finishes. “This isn’t our first rodeo, Diana. We know the drill.”
Diana retreats with a nod, and I’m already diving into the donated business attire, sorting through blazers and blouses. Most of it is decent quality—donations from women who’ve outgrown their corporate wardrobes or gotten promotions that require higher-end pieces.
“Okay, so what happened with Chad last night?” Raven asks while hanging a black pencil skirt on the appropriate rack. “You’re not in jail, so no bail money needed.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive,” I point out, pausing to look at a silk blouse halfway to its hanger.
Raven chuckles.
“He sent me a bedtime story.”
“And?”
“And then nothing. He said he’d be along shortly, and that was twelve hours ago.”
Raven snorts. “Damn, he edged you textually? A sadist. I like him. So what are you going to do about it?”
I shrug, because I have no idea. “Wait for him to text me back? Try not to lose my mind in the process? Perfect my wine-drinking technique?”
“All solid strategies.” Raven adjusts her camera angle to catch the morning light streaming through the windows. “But you know what’s weird? This whole thing is so unlike you.”
“How so?”
“Amanda.” She lowers her phone and gives me that look, the one that says she’s about to call me out on my bullshit.
“You’re the woman who carries a pink gun and practices Krav Maga for fun.
You’ve never needed a man for anything in your entire life.
Hell, you barely tolerate most of them. And now you’re spiraling over some faceless stranger who sends you mixed signals? ”
“Maybe I’m just bored,” I mutter, but even as I say it, I know it’s not true. Because she’s right. When did I become this person? When did I start waiting by my phone like some lovesick teenager? I used to be the one who left men hanging, not the other way around.
The worst part is how easily I’ve slipped into this pattern—checking my phone every five minutes, analyzing every word he sends, waiting for his permission to feel good about myself. Eight years of building walls, and suddenly I’m ready to tear them down for a man whose face I haven’t even seen.
“You’re never bored. You create your own entertainment. Maybe consider that he might be busy with whatever mysterious job he has,” Raven continues, mercifully moving past her psychological evaluation.
“What kind of job requires being unreachable?”
“Lots of them. Emergency medicine, military, international business, crime—”
“Please don’t say crime.”
“Or maybe he’s just playing hard to get.”
I groan, because the uncertainty is killing me. “I preferred him when he was definitely fake. Fake Chad was reliable. Fake Chad answered his texts.”
“Fake Chad was also limited by his programming. Real Chad has free will.”
“Free will is overrated.”
“Most days, yeah.” Raven pauses her filming to look at me. “It’s probably good you have something else to focus on today. This volunteer thing forces you to think about other people instead of spiraling into your own drama.”
I want to argue, but she’s right. “Fine. Yes. Having a distraction that involves helping people is probably healthier than obsessing over a man who refuses to show me his face.”
“Progress.”
The first women start arriving around ten thirty, and suddenly we’re in full fashion-consultant mode.
I forget about Chad and automated responses and mysterious motorcycle rides because there’s work to do.
First up is Jennifer, mid-forties, recently divorced, jumping back into the job market after fifteen years as a stay-at-home mom.
She’s nervous, keeps apologizing for taking up our time, and has no idea how amazing she’s about to look.
“I haven’t worn business clothes since before I had kids,” she confesses while wringing her hands as I lead her toward the blazer section.
“That’s fine. Fashion evolves, but confidence is timeless,” I tell her, already envisioning her in a sharp gray suit that’ll make hiring managers remember her name. “What kind of work are you looking for?”
“Administrative assistant positions, maybe some office management. I did bookkeeping before kids, so that experience still counts for something.”
“It counts for everything. And we’re going to make sure you look like the competent, professional woman you already are.”
Raven films me pulling pieces—the gray suit, a crisp white blouse, simple black pumps—while narrating for her followers about the psychology of interview dressing. She’s got this gift for making everything sound profound and accessible at the same time.
“The goal isn’t to costume yourself as someone else,” Raven explains to her camera while I help Jennifer into the blazer. “It’s to magnify the best version of who you already are.”
Raven’s words make me slightly uncomfortable.
Is that what I’ve been doing for eight years?
Costuming myself as someone else? Building a persona so bright and loud that no one looks too closely at what’s underneath?
The thought makes my hands pause on Jennifer’s collar, leaving me to wonder if my entire wardrobe is elaborate emotional camouflage.
Jennifer stands in front of the full-length mirror we’ve propped against the wall, and I watch her entire posture change. Shoulders back, chin up, hands smoothing the fabric like she’s discovering herself for the first time.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh, I look…”
“Powerful,” I finish. “You look powerful.”
She tears up a little, and I have to resist the urge to get emotional, too, because my mascara cost forty dollars and crying would be a waste of both money and artistry.
Next is Alicia, twenty-two, first real job interview after college graduation. She’s all Gen Z anxiety, convinced that her generation is doomed to eternal unemployment despite the fact that she has a computer science degree and enough coding skills to hack the Pentagon.
“Everything I own is either athleisure or going-out clothes,” she admits while gesturing at herself. “I have no idea how to dress like a real adult.”
“First of all, there’s no such thing as a ‘real adult,’ ” I tell her, and pull a modern navy dress that’ll make her look polished without aging her. “We’re all just making it up as we go along. Second, you’re about to learn that the right outfit is confidence in fabric form.”
The morning flows like that—woman after woman, each with her own story, her own challenges, her own dreams that deserve to be taken seriously. I lose myself in the process of helping them find pieces that make them feel unstoppable.
By the time we’re packing up at three o’clock, I’m exhausted but energized in that specific way that comes from doing something that matters. Raven’s got hours of content to edit, and I’ve got that satisfied feeling of having used my powers for good.
“Same time next month?” Raven asks while shouldering her camera bag.
“Obviously. And hopefully by then I’ll have figured out what the hell is going on with Chad.”
“Or you’ll have moved on to a nice, normal guy who shows his face and responds to texts.”
I snort. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Amanda, not everything has to be an adventure. Sometimes boring is good.”
“Says the woman who makes a living being mysterious on the internet.”
“Touché.”
We head outside into the afternoon sun, and I check my phone out of habit. No new messages from Chad, just the usual notifications and a text from Izzy asking if I’m still alive.
Maybe Raven’s right. Maybe I should want someone normal, someone predictable, someone who doesn’t make me question my sanity daily. My Uber pulls up, and I climb into the back seat. The entire drive back to my apartment I can’t stop thinking about the way Chad’s thumb felt against my lip.
Normal guys don’t do the things he’s doing.
But then again, I’ve never done normal, either.