twisted | ✔️

chapter three

I was sitting on the chaise lounge in the middle of the bridal shop, watching the lady take measurements on my Aunt Shaylene, as my phone buzzed in my pocket, and I didn't have to look to know who it was. My two best friends were on the couch opposite of me, snacking on the finger sandwiches that were provided, sweats on, hair unwashed from an evening of partying; and my mother was in front of the dressing room, admiring the bridesmaid's dresses hung up on the rack that she'd picked out for us; and Ian was at school, finishing his last day before winter break; so it couldn't have been any one of them. I woke up this morning to a text, followed by scattered ones throughout the day, all from Noah, messages checking up on me, wanting to meet up, to talk to me, and I'd ignored every single one.

These mimosas really were helping, made me bold and brazen. I downed the rest of the liquid in my flute before I pulled out my phone and swiped right on the message blinking on the screen: I want to take you out. I had fun last night.

My fingers flew across the keyboard in exasperation: Noah, we can't do this. I'm not looking for what you are. I'm sorry about last night, but it didn't mean anything.

I got a text back immediately: Just dinner. Or a movie. One date, that's all.

Not a date, I said. We can only be friends. That's it. If you want to go out as friends, I'm fine with that. Nothing more.

Friends, he replied, a small smiley face at the end, and I wondered if my persistence really had paid off, or if I would have to continue reminding him that a relationship, or anything remotely close, would not be a good idea. In fact, it would be disastrous.

Someone was saying my name. I looked up from my phone to my mother, holding my copy of the dress my aunt was wearing, an eager look displayed on her face. "It's your turn," she said, and I refrained from groaning. Not that she had chosen the worst option, but the idea of turning into someone like this—the maid of honor, the girl who was happy to stand by silently and watch as her mother said vows to another man—made my stomach churn. I wanted to be happy for her, I truly did, but I couldn't stop thinking that she'd moved on too quickly.

In the privacy of the dressing room, I stripped down to my underwear, my bare body staring back at me. I was thinner now, more so than when I was dancing, my ribs visible beneath my skin, my knees knobby, shoulders sharp. I looked weak, fragile, and I hated looking at myself in the mirror, but here it was, reminding me of everything that's been done to it. Scars lined my thigh, my shoulder, my back, ones I could disguise under a piece of fabric. Then there was the one above my eyebrow, the one I learned I could easily cover up with makeup after too many unanswerable questions about how it got there, but if I stepped closer to my reflection, it was still present, a piece of who I was. The bruises had long since faded, but I could have recounted exactly where they'd once been, the shape and the color of each, all of them burned in my memory.

"You almost done, Hillary?" I heard my mom's voice call from outside the curtains.

"Yeah," I called back, grabbing the dress off the hanger and turning away from myself. I slipped it over my head and it fell right into place. Reaching around to pull up the zipper in the back, I stepped back out into the room. Immediately, my mother covered her mouth, her eyes watering, and I wanted to retreat to the safety of my hoodie, of my leggings and sneakers.

"You look beautiful," she said, leading me up to the podium in front of yet another mirror, this one with three angles to show me all of my flaws.

"Damn," Emmy said, drawing out the word, "you look hot, Hudson."

The piece was strapless, a champagne pink color, with a tight fit around my chest and a high-low design that began just below my knees. I stared at the girl in front of me, in the costume she knew she had to wear, the bun on top of her head falling to the left, no makeup covering her face, and I couldn't bring myself to hate any of it. For a second, I almost looked real. The tailor started pulling and prodding, placing pins where the dress could be taken in or otherwise altered, while my mother was debating hairstyle options with my aunt, and I was too busy remembering the last time I wore a dress like this, the night of the Homecoming dance my senior year, the night of the crash.