Chapter 31
Lily
I woke up Saturday morning with my pulse already quick, like my body knew it was prom day even if my brain hadn’t caught up yet.
Sunlight striped the quilt, warm across my legs, and Lucky purred at the foot of the bed, his little engine going like he’d been awake for hours.
I stretched, hair sticking up in a dozen directions, and whispered to the ceiling, “Prom day.”
Not mine. Not the one I never had. But still. Something about today felt… important.
I swung my legs out of bed, and Lucky immediately wound between my ankles, meowing like he’d been starved for weeks.
“Relax,” I said, scooping food into his bowl.
“Big day for the kids. Big day for me, too, if I don’t ugly cry into the curling irons.
” He ignored me completely, shoving his whole face into the kibble.
I picked him up when he finished, tucking him under my chin as I crossed to the mirror.
“You would’ve been the perfect prom date,” I told his reflection. “No slow dances or heartbreak. Just fur and purring.”
His tail flicked like he was unimpressed, but I kissed his head anyway and set him down.
By the time I stepped out onto the porch with coffee in hand, Carol was already out front, fussing with her roses in cut-off gloves. She spotted me and waved a trowel.
“You look wide awake for a Saturday,” she called.
I laughed. “Only because I’m running on nerves. Big day.”
She came closer, wiping soil onto her jeans. “You’ll make it special, Lily. I’ve never met anyone who can spin glitter into gold the way you do.”
I smiled, but something in my chest tugged. “I just want them to feel seen, you know?”
Carol tilted her head, eyes warm. “And I think you want that for yourself, too, sweetheart. Which isn’t a bad thing.”
Her words landed heavier than she meant them to. I looked down into my mug and nodded, not trusting myself to answer.
I did want to be seen, to be known for who I truly was, but wanting that and actually doing it were two very different things.
The fight with Ethan rose up in my mind—his frustration, the way his voice sharpened when he said I kept shutting him out.
I’d felt backed into a corner, exposed in a way I wasn’t prepared for, and I snapped because of it.
Because letting someone pry open a locked door felt too dangerous. Too familiar.
The years of bouncing between foster homes pressed against me—boxes, bags, quick exits, goodbyes I learned not to make. I’d become an expert at showing only the pieces people wanted to see and hiding everything else behind gloss and grit. That polished smile had protected me for a long time.
So why did it feel so shaky now? Why had Ethan’s questions cut deeper than they should have?
The thought of opening up—really opening up—made my heart race in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. Because what if he saw all of me? What if he saw the messy, unfinished parts I’d spent years pretending didn’t exist?
And worse… what if he walked away like everyone else had?
Carol must’ve sensed it, because she gave a little clap of her gloved hands. “Alright, enough of that. The real question is—what dance moves are you breaking out tonight? The Macarena? The Running Man? Please tell me you’re not about to Vogue your way through prom chaperone duty.”
I laughed, nearly spilling my coffee. “I was thinking more like the Cabbage Patch. Or maybe I’ll invent something entirely humiliating just to scar Kayla for life.”
She smirked, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Well, in that case, you better save at least one dance for someone special. Maybe a certain grumpy bookstore owner?”
“Oh gosh, no,” I said quickly, my laugh a little too high.
Although the idea of being pressed close to Ethan, his arms around me, sent a chill down my spine.
“Ethan? He’s all hot and cold—half the time, I don’t know if he wants me around at all.
The man wouldn’t know what to do with a dance if it smacked him. ”
Carol just gave me that knowing smile, the one that made me feel both seen and cornered at once. “Mmhmm. We’ll see.”
***
By Saturday afternoon, it didn’t even look like the same bookstore.
Where the racks of dresses had stood, we’d made space for a beauty parlor—Willowbrook style.
Extension cords snaked across the floor, taped down in neon stripes so nobody tripped, feeding power to curling irons and hair dryers.
A row of mirrors leaned against the wall, each rimmed with twinkle lights.
Folding tables were crowded with palettes, blush brushes fanned out in mason jars, bottles of hairspray, and bobby pins spilling like confetti.
We’d scavenged every extra chair and cushion in town—barstools, piano benches, even a couple of stepstools—anything that could hold a girl in front of a mirror.
I’d made a special mix just for the day—Mariah Carey, Boyz II Men, Whitney, Janet. Songs that should’ve played in some gymnasium years ago while I stood in a corner pretending I didn’t care. Today they poured out of the stereo, filling the air with warmth.
Sarah was the first to arrive, balancing a curling iron in one hand and a giant bag of makeup in the other. “Where do you want me?” she asked.
“Over by the mirror,” I said, pointing to the vanity we’d rigged out of a folding table. “You’re the hair-and-makeup queen.”
Maggie came right after, sweeping in like a force. “Move that chair. No, angle the mirror toward the light. And someone get me more bobby pins.”
Rachel came through the door with her arms full of flowers—delicate sprays of baby’s breath, bundles of carnations, even a few roses she’d coaxed open that morning.
“Don’t mind me,” she said, setting vases along the windowsills until the whole place smelled like spring.
“Figured if the girls want corsages or a little something in their hair, we should be ready.” She tucked a sprig of greenery behind one mirror, then started wiring tiny blossoms into makeshift boutonnieres with the same focus she probably gave wedding orders.
And then the girls started arriving, shy at first—hands fidgeting with sleeves, eyes darting around like they’d walked into the wrong place.
But as the upbeat notes of Whitney’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” spilled from the stereo, the atmosphere shifted.
Laughter bubbled up, and the tension melted away.
Dresses swished. Mirrors filled with bright eyes and huge smiles.
Kayla sat on a stool while Sarah twisted her hair into an updo, her voice bubbling over. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Probably because Jason’s never slow danced before. What if we can’t figure it out?”
"Well, my date stepped on my dress," Sarah said, sliding in another bobby pin. "Ripped the hem clean off. I spent half of prom in the bathroom with safety pins and Maggie's emergency sewing kit."
"Oh my God," Kayla's eyes widened in the mirror. "What did you do?"
Sarah shrugged, smiling at the memory. "Danced anyway. Just kicked the torn part behind me like a train. And then eventually married my date." Sarah caught Kayla's eye in the mirror and gave her a wink, sending a flush of pink across the girl's cheeks.
Ethan came down once, just long enough to grab something from the shelves he needed.
He greeted Rachel and Maggie with a polite nod, even cracked a small joke that made them laugh.
But when his eyes met mine, the warmth I’d grown used to all week wasn’t there.
Just a quick hello, clipped and careful, before he headed back upstairs.
I forced a smile and bent over the table, fussing with jars of baby’s breath Rachel had brought, but the hollow ache in my chest remained.
Whatever warmth had grown between us seemed suddenly fragile, temporary—just like my stay in Willowbrook.
By September, I'd be gone. These bookstore walls, these people, this almost-something with Ethan—none of it was meant to last.
I slapped a smile on and floated between stations—offering mirrors, spritzes of perfume, a pep talk when one girl nearly backed out of wearing a sequined dress. “You look like you walked out of a music video,” I whispered to her. “Own it.” She beamed, and the room whooped in encouragement.
By the end, every girl looked like she’d stepped into a dream. And the sound—the giggles, the chatter, the music thrumming underneath it—felt like the soundtrack to a night I never had.
When the last girl left, I finally let myself exhale. My cheeks hurt from smiling, my fingers were sticky with hairspray, but God, it was worth it.
Instead of heading straight home, I climbed the stairs to Ethan’s apartment. He was at the counter, folding a dish towel with more focus than it probably needed.
“Hey,” I said softly, leaning against the doorframe. “We pulled it off. Boutique magic. You should’ve seen their faces.”
“Yeah,” he said, not looking up. “Seemed like it went well.”
I tried for a smile. “That’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard all day.”
He just shook his head, lips pressed in that line that meant he wasn’t going to give me more.
I crossed the room. “Come on, Calloway. No dry sarcasm? No comment about hairspray levels being a fire hazard?”
He sighed, finally meeting my eyes, but the weight there made my stomach dip.
I swallowed. “Okay then. I’ll take that as a no. I guess I’ll just… see you around.”
He gave a faint nod, already turning back to the towel. That was all.
I forced a little wave and left before the silence swallowed me whole.
***
By the time I got home, the house felt too quiet—just the soft padding of Lucky hopping off the couch to greet me. He blinked up at me with that judgmental cat face that said he knew exactly how the afternoon had gone.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered, tugging open my closet. “It’s just prom. Ten years late.”
But my hands stilled when I reached the hanger—sapphire silk, cool under my fingers.
I’d bought it years ago, on a reckless whim because I wasn’t sure I’d ever have the right moment.
Because no matter how many labels I wore or how much money I made, I’d never really believed I could be the girl who slipped into a dress like that and felt like she belonged.
As I pulled the dress over my head, the fabric cool against my skin, memories pressed in hard.
Not twinkle lights and slow songs—I never got that.
I remember walking the hallways with my eyes down, pretending not to notice the posters screaming "Starry Night" and "Enchanted Evening" in glitter-crusted letters.
I'd stab at my free-lunch mashed potatoes while girls at the next table debated corsage colors, my practiced smile ready whenever someone glanced my way.
"Yeah, still deciding what to wear," I'd say, though we all knew there was nothing waiting in my closet.
I remembered the laundry room of my foster home my senior year, stacking shirts still warm from the dryer while the radio carried in songs that were probably playing in the gym across town.
Melissa, my foster parent’s biological daughter, was there in sequins and glitter, and I was folding laundry, pretending it didn’t matter.
Pretending I didn’t care when it burned so deep I thought it might split me in two.
And later, I remembered lying awake, listening to the car pull back into the driveway, hearing her footsteps light and satisfied as she slipped upstairs, smelling like perfume and punch. Me, staring at the ceiling, swearing I’d never want something so special again, because wanting only hurt.
The ache rose sharply now, years later, pressing against my ribs. For a second, it threatened to undo me.
I closed my eyes, forcing a breath. Not tonight. Tonight wasn’t about what I missed. It was about what I could give. And maybe, if I were lucky, what I could take back.
I opened my eyes and caught my reflection.
The dress skimmed down over my hips, the sapphire making my skin glow.
I twisted sections of my hair into a half-up style, leaving tendrils framing my face like I'd seen in every prom photo in every yearbook I'd ever flipped through.
My hands trembled slightly as I pinned the tiny crystal stars I'd bought on impulse, their rhinestones catching the light with each nervous breath.
A careful sweep of shimmery eyeshadow, three coats of mascara, and a slick of clear gloss.
Then the gold hoops I always saved for courage—threading them through my ears with deliberate care.
And suddenly, for the first time in years, I almost looked like a girl heading to prom.
Rachel’s horn blared outside, Maggie’s voice floating up through the open window: “Lily Harper, if you don’t get out here, we’re leaving without you!”
I bent down, pressed a kiss to Lucky’s head. “Prom, finally,” I whispered.
Then I grabbed my clutch, squared my shoulders, and ran out the door.