Page 93 of Promise Me Sunshine

I spend forty-five straight minutes blow-drying my mane, and by the time I’m done I can no longer feel my arms. Even washed and blow-dried, my raggedly long hair does not look good. I have just enough strength left to French braid two plaits in my hair, but it’s giving Heidi (and not Klum), so I open the door and shout out to Miles. “Little help!”

He emerges down the hall, snacking on pretzels, but pauses ten feet away when he gets his first glimpse of me. He turns halfway and faces the wall. “Um, now?” he calls.

I glance down at myself. I’ve got the towel firmly pinned over me but from his point of view, peeking out from the door, yeah, I probably looked naked. “Yeah. C’mere.”

He shuffles to the bathroom door, his eyes on the wall behind me. He’s embarrassed. Cute.

“I want to twist these braids up, but my arms are noodles. Will you do it for me?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

Miles stands behind me and takes directions well. He only gouges my scalp with a bobby pin once. I cement my hands to the towel and the very second the final bobby pin is in place he jets out of the bathroom.

“I found the dresses,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll grab them.”

There’s an old tube of mascara and some eye shadow and lipstick in my bathroom bag, by some miracle, so I use muscle memory from my former life and apply it all. He comes back and hangs four dresses on the doorknob.

“I’m gonna shower and get dressed,” he says.

“I used all the hot water like a total asshole.”

Finally, his normal smile is back. “Well, I probably deserve it, considering I sprang this whole thing on you. If you hear someone screaming like a baby, that’ll just be me.”

He disappears back toward his end of the house. I survey the dresses.

Her taste was simple and sweet. I like all four dresses but nix two of them right away. One has shoulder pads and I just don’t have the swag for that. The other is jean, which seems rude to wear to a wedding, even if it’s casual. One is sky blue and lovely, but it drags on the floor when I try it on so I reluctantly put it back on the hanger. The last one is light pink and short and shapeless. I try it on and step out to the big mirror in the hallway. I almost make myself blush. In braids and pink I look so girly and fun!

I lean closer to the hallway mirror and give myself a thorough inspection. My face is rounder than it was last month. The blue smudges under my eyes are receding. I’ve got pink cheeks and lips.

I look lively.

Another word for lively: alive.

I take a step back and really survey myself: bare toes, everything scrubbed raw in the shower, pink dress, and hair in an actual style.

Alive.

I hear footsteps at the end of the hallway and turn toward Miles, about to throw my arms out and make some joke about Dr. Frankenstein’s success.

But then all the jokes take one look at Miles in a suit and promptly pass out.

Hello, shoulders.

They say a good suit does for a man what expensive lingerie does for a woman.

And I finally understand the sentiment because I can barely make eye contact with that tie he’s currently straightening while he walks. He glances up at me and—thank you very much—does a double take.

“Good?” I ask, saving him the trouble of coming up with something to say.

He arrives at my end of the hallway. “You look,” he tries anyway. “Yeah.”

“Niceis the word you’re looking for,” I inform him. “You look…” I step back and survey him, hand on my chin.

He braces for impact.

“Like a businessman who spanks his secretary with the door unlocked,” I decide.

He lets out a chuff of incredulity. He steps forward and puts one finger lightly on the bottom of my chin, tipping my head up. “Niceis the word you’re looking for.”

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