Turn 2 of 15

Attempt the make up and hope for the best. Surprisingly, it is like muscle memory.

You unzip the makeup bag and stare at the contents like they're alien artifacts. Foundation, primer, three brushes you couldn't have named an hour ago, a palette of eyeshadows in shades that mean nothing to you. Eyeliner. Mascara. A lipstick in a color called "Berry Bold" that you're pretty sure you would have made fun of yesterday.

You pick up the primer and squeeze a drop onto your fingertip. Your hand moves before your brain catches up, dabbing it across your forehead, your nose, your chin, blending with small precise strokes you've never practiced. It's there, somewhere, the knowledge, sitting in your fingers and your wrists like you've been doing this for years. You reach for the foundation without thinking, and your reflection watches you work with a competence that feels deeply unsettling.

The eyeshadow is where it gets strange. You blend a warm bronze across your lid and a darker shade into the crease, and your hands know exactly where to stop, how much to layer, when to step back. The eyes that stare back at you are dramatic now, defined and striking in a way that makes your breath catch. You didn't choose this color. Your body did. The eyeliner follows, a smooth wing that you pull off on the first try, and you think of every woman you've ever heard complain about cat-eye struggles and feel a small, guilty burst of pride.

Mascara. Blush. A setting spray you didn't know existed. Each step feels less like learning and more like remembering, like unzipping a file that was already stored somewhere in this body's operating system. You swipe on the lipstick last, press your lips together, and lean back from the mirror.

The person looking back at you is stunning. There's no other word for it. The green dress, the makeup, the dark hair falling across your shoulders, you look like you belong on the arm of someone like Jack. The thought surfaces unbidden, and you feel heat climb your neck.

"You've been in there forever," Jack calls through the door. "We need to leave in like an hour. Are you—" He pauses. "Are you almost ready?"

You gather the clutch and the heels he packed, take one last look, and open the door. Jack is leaning against the hallway wall, scrolling through his phone. He looks up, and his expression does something complicated. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.

"Wow," he says, and the word comes out rougher than he probably intended. "You look amazing."

You feel a flush of pleasure that has no business being as strong as it is. You clear your throat.