She laughs. "Okay, but hear me out. A few friends and I are going out downtown tonight. If you can spare some time from your very packed schedule—" she glances at the wine and chips again, "—you should come."
I look down at my basket. Look back at her.
"You know what? Yeah. I think I actually need that."
She pulls out her phone and we swap numbers right there between the wine display and the snack aisle, making planswhile other shoppers navigate around us. I leave the chips but keep the wine. Pre-game contribution.
It's past six by the time I get back to my apartment, which means I have roughly an hour before Melanie wants us at her place. I've gone out a handful of times since moving to Miami. Work has been easier than friendships. Easier than putting myself out there, building something from scratch in a city that doesn't owe you anything.
Which is exactly why I need tonight.
I connect my speaker and pull up a Tate McRae playlist, letting the bass fill the apartment while I stand in front of my open closet and wait for inspiration. It doesn't come fast. After several minutes of internal debate that probably looked insane from the outside, I land on the black bodysuit and leather skirt.
Safe. But not boring.
Makeup first, lesson learned the hard way. Foundation, bronzer, a thin line of eyeliner. No wing tonight, no experiments, just enough mascara to do something with my eyes.
When I step back from the mirror I stop.
The eyeliner makes them look darker. Sharper. Less like sage and more like something with an edge.
Why don't I do this more often?
I zip up the black booties and take a full look in the mirror by the door before I go.
The bodysuit hugs every curve. The leather skirt sits high on my waist, and I've got plenty of hips for it to sit on. I've hovered between a twelve and fourteen for as long as I can remember. Curvy, people would say, like that covered everything. Child-bearing hips, like it was a compliment.
I flinch at the memory.
The comments started young. Too young. Men who thought they were charming. Women who thought they were being honest. I learned early what it felt like to be looked at instead of seen, to take up space and have that space immediately defined for you by someone else.
Part of why I want to be an attorney, if I'm being honest with myself. I know what it feels like to wish someone had said something. To wish someone had stepped in.
I breathe in slowly and push it down where it belongs.
Not tonight.
I grab the Fireball shooters from the freezer, tuck the wine under my arm, and head out.
Melanie is unloading her trunk when I pull up. I jog over and grab a few bags without asking.
"Thanks — okay, you clean up nice," she says, looking me over with open appreciation. "The other girls will be here any minute, I just need to get changed really fast. You want a drink or anything?"
"I have a better idea." I pull the shooters out of my bag.
She stares at them. Makes a sound that is somewhere between a gag and a laugh. Then she sticks her hand out.
"I brought four but there are only two of us right now," I say. "We don't have to?—"
"I'm not waiting for the others." She cracks hers open.
We lock eyes. Tap bottles. Swallow.
Her face contorts magnificently. She immediately holds her hand out for the second one.
I oblige. We crack them open. She chases hers with an entire glass of water, groaning, eyes watering.
"That was worse than I remembered."