The deep breath did little to settle her stomach. Her hair had been largely untouched over the last several years. Ever since Glenn had thrown a dinner plate at her for spontaneously cutting six inches off of her hair. Women should have long hair. You look like an ugly little boy.

She opened her eyes and took the first look at The New Gloria.

Her dark hair had lost its heavy length. Instead it was styled around her face in a cloud of natural curl and volume.

“You look like Sofia Loren,” her mother said with satisfaction.

Gloria reached up to touch it. “I don’t look like me.”

“You didn’t look like you before,” Sara countered, pouring more frozen goodness into their glasses.

Turning her head from side to side, Gloria admired the reflection. It was…perfect.

“I love it,” she said, staring in the mirror longer than she had in years and liking what she saw.

“How do you feel about some makeup?” Sara tempted.

Makeup. Gloria had once loved all things cosmetic. She loved experimenting, making pretty. She’d done her friends’ makeup for homecoming her junior year. Glenn didn’t approve. She’d managed to hide a small stash of guilty pleasures from him for over a year before he’d found it and called her a whore for painting her face.

“Yes,” she said, enjoying the spark she saw in her reflection. “And then let’s go out to dinner.”

Sara pushed the glass toward her. “We will Uber.”

“Cheers,” Gloria raised her glass, the smile stretching her face in unfamiliar and wonderful ways.

7

She’d picked up her new phone to cancel at least a dozen times. It was a pity invite, she decided as she rolled out the pie crust with a panicked violence. “Harper felt sorry for me,” Gloria told herself. Besides, her car was in the garage getting some of its rust removed and its brakes changed—thanks to her saint of a mother.

It was the perfect excuse to cancel. Of course, she could walk. It was only a couple of blocks.

“Gah!” Gloria swiped the back of her hand over her forehead in frustration, leaving a streak of flour behind.

Her mother was at work, queen beeing around her salon, and she had the house to her self-conscious, terrified self. They’d gone to dinner in town that weekend, and it had been a mistake.

“Poor little Gloria Parker” had been on the lips of every patron as they smiled sadly at her. By the end of dinner, she’d felt like a zoo animal rescued from the wild where she was too weak to survive.