Page 30 of Office Hours
“I don’t remember,” I say, because there wasn’t one.
She whistles, low and sweet. “That’s tragic. We’re fixing it.”
She yanks a black tank from the closet, then a pair of dark jeans with strategic rips. “Try these. You can thank me later.”
I take the clothes, but I don’t move to change. I stare at my phone, scrolling back to the text from Dylan. He’s so normal, so clean, so obvious in his intentions. No games, no drama. Just “Looking fwd to Olive Branch 2nite.”
I touch my lips again, remembering the taste of Liam, the heat of his hands, the way he said my name like it was both a punishment and a reward.
Andie is watching me, arms crossed. “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I just…I’m not used to this.”
She plops down beside me, squeezing my hand. “It’s going to be fine. You don’t have to marry the guy. Just have fun. If it sucks, you can bail. If it’s great, you get free dessert.”
I laugh, and this time it sticks. The idea of free dessert is more appealing than the idea of being someone’s first or only.
Andie stands, clapping her hands. “Okay. Sit up straight. I’ll do your hair, and then we can pick out an outfit. Forget the jeans and tank top. We need to go sexy.”
I move to the mirror, but my reflection is a stranger—eyes too wide, hair a mess, lips swollen from last night’s crying jag. For a second I feel like I could be anyone, anywhere, someone whose whole body isn’t haunted by a forbidden crush on a brooding older man.
Andie brushes my hair, quick and efficient, twisting it into a high ponytail, then stands back to admire her handiwork. “You’re a bombshell. That boy won’t know what hit him.”
I glance at myself in the mirror, unsure.
“You got this,” she whispers, squeezing my shoulders.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
When she leaves to borrow something or other from a neighbor, I sit on the edge of my bed, hands shaking. I scroll to Liam’s number in my phone, stare at the empty text box, and then, for the first time all day, type something.
“I miss you,” I write. Then I delete it.
Instead, I shove my phone in my bag, grab my student ID, and go out into the hallway. The air is cold, the building silent. I head to the bathroom and stare at my reflection until I don’t recognize the girl looking back.
Tonight, I’m supposed to be someone new.
But all I feel is the same old Simone: empty, electric, waiting for something that will never come.
I straighten my tank and walk back to my room, bracing myself for whatever comes next.
When I get backto my room, Andie is already there, waiting for me with a pile of outfits spread across my sheets like she’s a human version of a tornado siren. Her face is bright with anticipation and the remnants of Sephora’s “Glow Stick” highlighter.
“Okay, sit,” she orders, pulling me down onto my own bed. “We have exactly two hours to transform you from tragic waif to sex goddess, and I’m not wasting a second.” She’s already sorted my closet into three piles: ‘cute,’ ‘slutty,’ and ‘maybe when you’re forty.’
She holds up the black dress first, a bodycon number I bought for a sorority event but never wore. “Try this one. With your boobs, it’s gonna look insane. I’ll get the push-up.”
I shuck off my clothes, letting the new dress slither up my thighs and hug me like a vacuum-sealed sausage casing. My chest threatens to revolt, the fabric barely containing the twin orbs of my D-cups.
Andie steps back, eyes wide. “Oh my god, Simone. It’s criminal. You look like you could break up marriages.”
I glance at my reflection in the mirror, half-expecting to see a stranger. The effect is jarring: my tits look huge, my waist tiny, my thighs smooth as poured milk. I barely recognize myself.
Andie purses her lips, sizing me up for a moment. “Perfume is what you need,” she declares, then mists me with somethingsweet and floral, the particles hanging in the air like a weaponized mood.
“Now sit,” she says, shoving me in front of the desk mirror. She lines up her artillery—eyeshadow, mascara, three shades of lip stain—and gets to work. Her hands are deft, practiced, her chatter running nonstop.
“You know, Dylan Tourneau only dates the hottest girls. Like, no offense, but I didn’t think you were his type. You’re more, like, hot girl who’s a poetry major than pool party girl.”
