“Oh! Wow.” I turned to a rack of all-black tops and started blindly sifting through. Everything seemed to be organized by color. “I didn’t realize you had a job.”

“You wouldn’t, would you?”

I tensed, but her voice was wistful.

She nodded toward a curtained area in the back. “Dressing room. I’ll bring you stuff.”

I hesitated, watching her pick a neon-green dress with no neckline beyond a bit of gauze.

She glared. “I know what I’m doing.”

I put up my hands in silent surrender.

I’d just managed to close the curtain and shimmy my shirt off when three dresses rocketed over from the other side. Neon green, dark green, fire-engine red.

“Um . . .” I held the red one with the tips of my fingers.

“Put them on!”

I did. All three. And Jules was right—she knew what she was doing.

I tried the bright green dress last, examining my reflection in the mirror from every angle. A sleek, modern, put-together adult-type person peered back at me. Not quite me. But maybe that was a good thing.

I couldn’t help but imagine the dress floor-length, unfussy, comfortable, my hair in an elegant up-do, heels just the right height for working the pedals. My imaginary concert dress. Even my face looked different than I’d always thought it would.

Jules poked her head in. “That one. Definitely.”

“Yeah, it’ll work.”

“It’ll work?” She scoffed. “That’s it? That’s all you’re giving me here?”

“It suits the occasion, it’s . . . attractive,” I tried, spinning so the skirt swished. “I don’t know! It’s clothes, it’s not . . .”

Her eyes turned into knife blades. “It’s not what?”

I smiled sweetly. “Curing cancer?”

She throttled the air in front of her. “The word is aesthetics, not clothes, asshole. As in, a key part of human civilization . . .”

I groaned, waving off the oncoming lecture. “Okay.”

“Think of this dress as a suit of armor—”

“It’s spectacular, Jules, oh my God, I’m going to faint from the fashion!”

“I hate you.”

“Kisses!” I yanked the curtain closed again and pulled the dress gently off my head.

“I’m giving you the commission,” the shop girl said to Jules as I fumbled for my credit card.

“Don’t you dare,” Jules said from behind me. “I am one hundred percent off-the-clock.”

I turned to see her scanning the racks with a closed-off look in her eye. “Why don’t you try something on?”

She looked away. “I get stuff here sometimes, but only when they’re being pulled from stock or returned for a minuscule hole or whatever. They give us a really deep discount.”

“Let me buy you something. As a thank-you.”

“Yeah, thanks but no.”

She said the word no like she was etching it into a stone tablet. I knew not to press the issue.