Page 43 of Across the Boards

“It’s sophisticated and sexy, and Brody would swallow his tongue if he saw you in it.”

“That’s not my goal!”

“It should be,” Sarah mutters, but relents. “Fine. Try the blue one next.”

We’ve been shopping for two hours, and I’ve tried on everything from conservative black sheaths that Sarah deems “funeral director chic” to sequined monstrosities that would make a Vegas showgirl blush. Nothing feels right.

“I don’t see why I couldn’t just wear the black dress from my closet,” I grumble, wiggling out of the green slip of fabric.

“Because you’ve had it for six years and Jason bought it for you,” Sarah calls through the dressing room door.

“He did not!”

“The label is his favorite designer. You’d never have bought it yourself.”

Sometimes I hate how well she knows me. “Fine. But nothing backless, nothing with a slit up to my hip bone, and nothing that requires special underwear or fashion tape.”

“You’re taking all the joy out of formal wear,” Sarah complains.

I step into the blue dress—a simpler design with a modest neckline but flattering cut—and immediately feel more comfortable. The color is deep navy, almost black in certain lights, with a shimmer when I move.

“Zip me,” I call, opening the door.

Sarah obliges, then steps back to assess. Her expression is less enthusiastic than with the green dress, but she nods approvingly.

“It’s very... you.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Neither. It’s accurate.” She adjusts the fabric at my shoulders. “You look beautiful, but safe.”

“I like safe,” I say defensively.

“I know you do.” Her tone softens. “But sometimes safe keeps you from experiences you might actually want.”

We’re not talking about dresses anymore. “Sarah?—”

“I’m just saying, you’ve spent three years building walls around yourself. And that’s completely understandable after what Jason did. But maybe it’s time to lower the drawbridge a little. Let someone in.”

“This metaphor is getting complicated,” I deflect.

“You know what I mean.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. “Brody’s a good guy, Elle. One of the best Tommy knows. And he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

A warmth spreads through my chest at her words, along with a corresponding spike of fear. “That’s exactly what terrifies me. The way he looks at me.”

“Why?”

“Because what if I let him in and it all falls apart again?” I voice the fear that’s been haunting me since our dinner at Marcel’s. “I barely survived the first time.”

“But you did survive,” Sarah points out. “You rebuilt everything. You’re stronger now.”

“Am I?” I turn to face her directly. “Or am I just more afraid?”

“Maybe both.” She squeezes my hand. “But I’ve seen you the last few weeks, since Brody came into the picture. You laugh more. You wear colors again. You agreed to come to a hockey event for the first time in three years.”

“Because you blackmailed me with karaoke evidence.”

“Because you wanted to,” she corrects. “You could have told me to post that video on YouTube and suffered the embarrassment. But you didn’t.”

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