blurry | ✔️

chapter sixteen

The doorbell rang, and I hopped up off the couch to answer it. I was alone in the house; Mom had run off to her office to grab papers that needed grading, having decided to go back to work next week, and Ian had gone to the Homecoming dance with some friends. Before he'd left, I'd given him a thumbs-up for what he was wearing—a completely white suit with a blue bowtie at the top.

My stomach had been rumbling just a few minutes before, the product of no breakfast and dancing practically all day, and I ran to the door, already anticipating the taste and smell of the pepperoni pizza I'd ordered. My plan was to sit, binge-watch House, and binge-eat an entire large pizza until I fell asleep. My night was going to be better by leaps and bounds than anyone's who went to the dance.

I swung the door open, making the delivery guy jump, and I feared for the safety of the box in his hands. I paid him as he handed it over, and I was content to shut off all of the lights in my house and romance myself—well-deserved, especially after the day I had—but as soon as I was about to sit down, the doorbell sounded again.

I groaned; what could the guy have possibly forgotten?

But it wasn't him. It was Emmy.

"You have the pizza," she said, "and I have the makeup. Let's get ready for a dance." Sure enough, she was carrying a large makeup bag, with a plastic-sheathed dress slumped over her arm, and she barged right past me. I stood there in shock for a moment before turning around to see her marching up the stairs. I was fully aware that she knew where she was going, but it was still odd seeing her here with no warning.

"Uh," I called up the stairs, following behind her, "what?" We were in my room by now, and she tossed the dress down on my bed and the bag onto my vanity. She gave me a look like I was the crazy one in this situation; I mirrored her expression.

"What?" she echoed.

"I didn't exactly know that you were coming over," I said slowly. "Or, should I say, I didn't exactly invite you over?"

"Yeah, I know," she responded. "What dress are you going to wear tonight?"

"I have no clue what you're talking about," I deadpanned. We definitely weren't on the same page as each other; hell, I don't even think we were in the same book.

"The dance," she said.

I let out a loud, humorless laugh. "What about it?"

"I just asked you. What are you going to wear?" She walked over to my closet, flipping through it like it was her own, pulling out several of my dresses and positioning them on my bed side-by-side, four in total. "Which one?" she finally said, looking up at me with expectant eyes.

"Which one what?" I still hadn't put together the pieces of the puzzle, all the things she had said to me and how they connected, even though it was glaringly obvious.

"Jesus," Emmy said, clearly exasperated, "are you deaf?" She picked up one of the dresses and held it up to my body, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed in scrutiny as she studied it, looking me up and down, before shaking her head and tossing it aside. I didn't think she realized that that was an article of my clothing, not hers. She picked up the second dress and did the same.

"Emmy," I said, putting up my hands to ward off the third attempt at trying to get me to change out of my sweatpants and oversized T-shirt, "I'm not going to the dance, so this is essentially pointless."

She scrunched up her nose and shot me what I could only describe as a condescending smile. "Of course you are."

"No," I protested, as she held up the third dress in the light, like that was going to make it somehow look different, "I don't think you're fully grasping the meaning of 'not going'."