Turn 3 of 15

Before leaving you take a good look in the mirror to see what has changed. You start to like what you see.

You turn back to the full-length mirror one more time, not because you need to check anything, but because you can't quite stop yourself. The hallway light catches the green fabric of the dress, and you watch it move with you, clinging where it should and flowing where it shouldn't. You shift your weight to one hip, and the curve there is still startling, still wrong, still—but the word doesn't quite fit anymore. Strange, maybe. Not wrong.

Your face is what holds you. The makeup has transformed features that were already transformed, and the result is someone who looks confident, put-together, effortlessly pretty. You tilt your chin down and look up through your lashes, an expression you didn't plan, and something in your chest tightens. You know this face. Not from memory, but from the way it moves, from the way your expressions feel different on these features. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, and you watch it form in the mirror, watch the way it lifts your cheeks and softens your eyes, and you realize with a slow, spreading warmth that you like it. You like what you see.

The realization should alarm you more than it does. An hour ago you were a twenty-eight-year-old guy in a hoodie, and now you're standing in your hallway in a dress that hugs curves you can't quite believe, feeling a flush of satisfaction at your own reflection. Your hand drifts to your hip, and the pose feels natural, feels right in a way that makes your skin prickle. The necklace glows faintly against your collarbone, warm and steady, and you wonder briefly if it's feeding you these feelings or if they're just… yours now.

"We really need to go," Jack says from behind you, and you catch his reflection in the mirror. He's watching you, and there's something unguarded in his face, something that looks like the way he looked at you when you first opened the bathroom door but deeper. His eyes are on the way your hand rests on your hip, on the line of the dress, on the fall of your hair. He catches you watching him watch you, and his expression snaps to something more neutral, but not fast enough.

You turn away from the mirror, and the movement sends your hair swinging across your shoulders. The heels are next—you sit on the edge of your bed and slip them on, and your feet settle into them like they've done this a thousand times. You stand, and the extra height changes your balance, your posture, everything. You're still shorter than Jack. That fact lands in your chest with a weight you don't want to examine too closely.

"Okay," you say, and your voice is steadier now, more natural, like you're growing into it. "Let's go crash your ex's wedding."