Page 98 of His Good Girl

“Wildly.”

I opened the door.

Jules, sitting on the edge of my bed with a gummy worm halfway to her mouth, froze.

“What?”

She lowered the gummy worm. “That skirt is a weapon.”

“It is not.”

“It absolutely is. That skirt should have a permit.”

I turned toward the mirror and immediately regretted having eyes. The skirt fit better than I remembered, sleek and black and severe, hugging my hips before narrowing at the knees. I had paired it with the plain blouse I had worn that day. Jules came to stand behind me in the mirror. For once, she did not joke immediately.

“You don’t have to,” she said.

“I know.”

“Wanting something doesn’t mean you have to walk toward it.”

“I know.”

“But wanting it doesn’t make you bad either.”

“What if I can’t handle what happens if I wear it?” I asked.

“What if you can?”

I closed my eyes.

That was Jules, always. She had a talent for locating the question I was avoiding because it was more frightening than the obvious one.

We talked for the rest of the evening. We did not solve anything. We rarely did. Instead, we ate noodles out of cartons, argued about whether Callum’s instruction was ‘hot in a dangerous way’ or ‘dangerous in a hot way,’ and debated possible neutral outfits for the morning in case I decided to retreat with dignity. Julesfinally left at midnight and kissed the top of my head before going.

“Text me in the morning,” she said at the door.

“I might be dead.”

“Then haunt me with the details.”

After she left, the apartment felt too quiet.

I prepared both outfits.

That was the closest I came to a decision.

The black pencil skirt went into a garment bag with a soft ivory blouse. I packed conservative black three-inch heels. Then I packed stockings that I immediately removed from the bag, stared at, and put back in my drawer because his instruction had been specific enough without adding my own theatrics. Then, because I was not insane, or because I was insane but committed to options, I packed gray trousers and a navy blouse into the bag as well.

I brushed my teeth, set three alarms, and laid down, but I did not sleep. At some point around three in the morning, I got up and moved the pencil skirt from the garment bag to the chair. Then I moved it back. By morning, I had become a person made mostly of coffee and bad judgment.

I wore the gray trousers to leave my apartment.

That was important. At least, it felt important. I buttoned the navy blouse, pinned my hair neatly, put on sensible shoes, and looked at myself in the mirror until I almost believed I had chosen safety.

On the train, I stood between a man reading emails and a woman holding a bouquet of grocery-store flowers. I gripped the pole with one hand and the bag of life-changing options with the other. Every stop gave me another chance to turn around. I did not.

I arrived at Rowe Tower about forty minutes too early.