LARK #4
I glance up at my reflection, expecting something borderline ridiculous, but—no. It’s…good. The curls are soft and loose, like I woke up this way, like I didn’t just sit on a toilet while my best friend performed a minor miracle on my head.
“Well,” I murmur. “I sure as shit don’t look like George Washington.”
Miller gives a small, satisfied nod. “Growth.”
She picks up my mascara and bronzer from the counter, pressing them into my hand. “Do something with your face. Minimal effort, maximum effect. Let’s not undo all my good work.”
As I stand and move to the mirror, she crosses her arms. “What shoes are you wearing?”
I point to my favorite white cowgirl boots. “Those.”
Miller turns to me with mild horror. “You’re joking.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
She sighs, deeply pained. “This is my burden to bear.”
I grab the eyelash curler off the counter and give my lashes a few quick presses, leaning toward the mirror like that half-inch makes all the difference. Miller’s standing behind me, watching like a coach evaluating my form, arms crossed, mouth tight, like she’s resisting the urge to take over.
I swipe on mascara, careful not to blink too fast, then dust some bronzer over my cheeks and forehead.
I’d been blessed with naturally clear skin, so I never bother with foundation or concealer.
A little blush for color, clear gloss for shine, and I’m done.
Easy. Fast. Low maintenance, which is how I’ve lived for the past twelve years because there hasn’t been time for anything else.
I pick up the hairspray and spritz it lightly over the curls Miller’s meticulously sculpted. They fall around my shoulders in soft waves, looking far more intentional than anything I’ve done with my hair in a decade. I take a step back and look at myself fully.
Holy shit .
Miller moves beside me, her gaze flicking from my reflection to my actual face, then back again. “You look like the girl who had every guy in school obsessed with her sophomore year.” She pauses, then adds dryly, “Only hotter. No braces. Slightly less feral.”
I snort and pull her into a dramatic, over-the-top hug, smacking a loud kiss to her forehead like I’m sealing a blessing. “You’re a fucking gem, Mills.”
She rubs at the spot immediately, face twisted in disgust. “Ew. Never do that again.”
“You loved it.”
“I tolerated it,” she says, but I catch the corner of her mouth lifting just enough to give her away.
I walk back into the room to pull on my boots, bending to zip them while Miller watches like I’ve just admitted to a crime. Her voice cuts through the silence, high with disbelief. “You’re sure you don’t want to borrow any of the heels I brought?”
I glance up at her. “What part of ‘dive bar’ are you not understanding?”
Her eyes narrow. “The part where you show up looking like a character from Yellowstone . I brought Louboutins, a pair of Jimmy Choos, and my Valentinos. Pick one.”
I roll my eyes at her, then reach for my boot again. “They’d get stuck in the floorboards, Miller.”
She exhales like I’m personally offending her fashion sense. “Fine. But at least wear this.” She digs into her bag and pulls out a bottle of perfume—sleek, minimal, expensive. She uncaps it and sprays it on my neck and wrists before I can protest, then mists a bit into my hair for good measure.
The scent hits me immediately—warm, floral, but with something deeper I can’t place. Something that lingers. “Damn. Whatever that is smells really good.”
“It better,” she says, slipping the bottle back into her bag. “It costs four hundred dollars.”
I turn to her, scandalized. “You have four hundred dollar perfume?”
She shrugs. “It’s not a crime to like nice things. I’m the lawyer—I’d know.”
Before I can respond, a knock echoes from the front door. I glance at my phone, my stomach dipping. “Shit. I lost track of time.”
Miller and I pause in front of the full-length mirror in my room, the two of us standing shoulder to shoulder like we’re inspecting a piece of art—or, more accurately, like she’s the artist and I’m the canvas.
The light from the window is soft now, that late golden hue before dusk fully settles, catching on the ends of my curls and the worn stitching of my denim skirt.
It should feel like too much, the bare legs, the tied top, the faint gleam of lip gloss, but it doesn’t. It feels like enough.
Miller’s eyes scan me from head to toe, and for once, she doesn’t say anything cutting or sarcastic. She just nods, her reflection steady beside mine. “You look really good, Lark. Like, really fucking good.”
I squeeze her hand, my voice quiet but certain. “Thank you.”
She gives my hand a quick return squeeze, then pulls away like the moment’s gone on too long, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. “Go answer the door,” she says, already turning toward her bag. “You’re making me feel underdressed.”
I grab my purse from the hook by the door, slinging it over my shoulder as I head down the stairs. My fingers tap against the strap, my mind ticking through a mental checklist. Phone. Wallet. Gum. Deodorant. I have all the things. I think.
Halfway down, it hits me—this is my first date in years.
Actual, legitimate date. The word alone makes my stomach knot up, like it’s something foreign.
I’m used to pickup lines at grocery stores and being told I “don’t look like a mom.
” Used to men who assume a single mother means desperate, or worse, an easy lay.
But this isn’t just any man. It’s Boone. Boone, who’s seen every inch of my body without a stitch of makeup on. Boone, who’s kissed me when I’ve had morning breath and who’s held my hand while I ugly-cried over a bad day. Boone, who is my son’s father.
I shouldn’t be nervous but still, my hands feel clammy and I swear my pulse is louder than the knock that just came again from the door. I square my shoulders, trying to shake it off, trying to remember that I’m not someone new walking into this. I’m me.
And that’s more than good enough.