Zoe shrugs again, holding a blouse up to her frame and glancing in the mirror before putting it back. “Don’t blame me, I didn’t invent the system. But it’s the natural balance of things.”

“Whatever.” I sigh.

“Anyway, don’t tell Damien you’re dreaming about other boys,” she chirps, nudging me with her elbow. “He’ll get jealous.”

He doesn’t even know the half of it.

“I won’t.”

With that, she brushes off the conversation, and I decide not to tell her about the rest—the car barreling toward me and the hand reaching out to grab me at the festival.

“I’m going to try this on.” She holds up the black dress. “Come to the dressing room with me? I need your opinion.”

“Sure,” I say, smiling halfheartedly.

We make our way to the fitting room, and I sit on a plush cushion in the waiting area as Zoe changes into the dress. Shortly after, she emerges, lifts her hair into a ponytail, and does a twirl as she stands before me, assessing her reflection in the mirror from all angles.

“Thoughts?”

“It looks gorgeous on you,” I say. Watching her makes my self-­esteem plummet. I don’t necessarily have a problem with the way I look, but I’m envious of how comfortable she seems to be in her skin. It’s clear she feels at home in her body, whereas I feel like I’m a guest in mine.

“Something isn’t right,” she remarks, placing her hands on her hips, and frowning. “I think it’s the waist. Boo. I really liked it.”

“No, Zoe, it looks perfect.” I encourage her, but her expression doesn’t budge. “Seriously.”

A fitting room attendant folding clothes nearby looks between the two of us, before returning to her task. “Your friend should try it on,” she says simply.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Zoe turns to me slowly. “Do you want to?”

“Um . . . sure,” I say. “Why not?”

She heads back into the change room and comes out a couple of minutes later in her regular clothes, then hands me the dress with a wooden smile. “Here you go.”

After taking it from her delicately, I slip through the door. I take off my jeans and the turtleneck I borrowed from Audrey, then slide the dress over my head. It fits my body like a glove, and I smooth my hand down over the lacy skirt.

Feeling exposed, I step out of the change room. The attendant instantly lets out a delighted gasp, and Zoe’s lips part. Laughing uncomfortably, I peer at my reflection, fiddling with a loose thread.

Both of them come up behind me, and the attendant beams. “That dress was made for you.”

“She’s right,” Zoe says quietly, seeming a lot more reserved than before. “You should definitely get it.”