While I wait for Alice and Charlotte to come over, I take the rest of the day to wash my hair—and it’s the most therapeutic, loving thing I could have done for myself. Condition, detangle, deep condition with a heat wrap, paint my nails and watch a movie while I wait, rinse. I emerge from the shower with my hair wrapped in a microfiber towel and rub the foggy mirror until I can see the genuine, full smile on my face. Tangles gone. Scalp clean. Curls moisturized and bouncy. Head and soul lighter.

More me than I’ve been in months.

Charlotte ends up bringing over a dozen dresses and a chest full of jewelry—and they aren’t just hers. Some are from her friends down the hall and on the floor above us. “Kappas, a few Sigmas,” she says. I’m grateful she’s such a busybody, because otherwise I wouldn’t have any options two hours before the gala.

I expect Charlotte to dig for details about why I need a dress; it’s far too early in the semester for most Greek orgs and groups to hold their formals. But Alice already explained that it’s for a society gala, and that seemed answer enough for her. When Charlotte doesn’t mention Evan getting similarly dressed up, I wonder what lie he told his girlfriend about his plans for the night. Beer and PlayStation? Boys’ night? Whatever it was, it’s keeping her safe.

I try on ten dresses that are clearly meant for someone with smaller boobs and hips, sending Charlotte running from the room to go on another search, phone in hand.

After I shimmy into the eleventh dress, Alice gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth.

When I turn to the full-length mirror on the back of our door, my witty, self-deprecating retort disappears. A low squawk of disbelief falls from my open mouth instead.

“Oh, Bree. This is the one,” Alice breathes. She drops down to where my knees are hidden beneath the long, floor-length layers of tulle and pulls the material out until it fans around my feet. “You look amazing.”

When she stands back up, I see in the mirror that her eyes are glistening behind her glasses. “Alice Chen, no crying. It’s just a dress,” I say, but it’s not true.

It’s not just a dress. It’s a gown, fit for a court.

She wipes at her face and smiles at me in the mirror. “It’s just that you look like her.”

My chest and throat seize up together, my emotions a swirling cocktail.

There’s no way I can respond, so I grab her hand. She drops her head onto my shoulder with a sigh, and we stare at our reflection. We squeeze each other’s fingers tight, because there are some moments that are too empty, and too full, for words.