True to her word, Collette accompanies me to every single boutique within a mile radius of Morgan’s during our lunch break. Most of them don’t have anything appropriate for New Year’s Eve, AKA slinky, sexy, sparkly, and fun. We luck out at the final shop though. They have a killer white sequined mini dress that I buy straight off the mannequin without even trying it on because we have to book it back to Morgan’s for a 1 PM meeting.

At the end of the work day, Collette doesn’t let me make my escape.

“I know you. You’ll go home and lose steam and then I’ll be receiving one of those lame, ‘Sorry, change of plans. Staying in tonight’ texts. No. Consider me your fairy fucking godmother. Let’s go. When I was supposed to be sending emails this afternoon, I was actually booking us appointments to get our hair and makeup done, and if we’re fast, we can eat at this little sushi place around the corner first.”

Okay then. Who am I to argue with that?

The evening passes exactly as Collette had planned, and at 9:30 PM, I lock myself in her bathroom to change for the party. I take off my work clothes and fold them neatly, then I unzip the dress. There are built-in cups, which is nice because I definitely didn’t wear the right bra for it. I step in and gently tug it up, panicking slightly as I feel the hem hit just beneath the tops of my thighs.

“Uhh…Collette,” I say, my voice already wobbly. “This might not work.”

I reach around to zip it up, hoping that by some miracle, I’ll get more length from the dress once it’s situated on me correctly. I don’t. The bodycon fit hugs my curves, the strapless neckline accentuates my cleavage, and the subtle sequins shimmer in the light.

“How is it?”

“Umm…”

I open the door for her to see it herself.

Her eyes practically bug out of her head. “Holy shit.”

“Too short?”

“Yes. It’s obscene. I love it. Spin.” I do as she says, and she lets loose a ridiculous catcall. “It’s perfect.”

“For a small child maybe.”

“Whatever. I’m obsessed. Here.” She holds out a pair of silver heels that have a thin ankle strap. “I rooted through my closet. I know you’re a half-size smaller than me, but these heels should work if you tighten them enough.”

So this is it. There’s no going back.

Collette and I walk arm in arm through the lobby of her apartment complex to the Uber waiting outside. The driver clears his throat when we get in, his cheeks coloring slightly as he turns back to us.

“Uh, hey. You ladies ready to go?”

Collette grins and shoots me a wink. “Ready.”

Bar 717 has been completely transformed by a team of event designers hired by Collette and her friends. Near the entrance, a thick wall of fresh white flowers creates the perfect backdrop for photos. Disco balls rain down from the ceiling, the bar’s usual furniture has been replaced by modern white tables and silver chairs, and filled champagne buckets ensure no one’s flute is empty. Loud music pulses around us, and the bar is packed. Collette wastes no time thrusting me into the throng of people.