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The next hour passes in a whirl of fabric and zippers. Emerson and Fern are brutally honest yet encouraging critics, nixing a teal gown that makes me look "like a mermaid having an identity crisis" and enthusiastically approving a deep burgundy that "makes your boobs look phenomenal."

Despite my inner turmoil regarding Alder, I find myself enjoying their company. They're funny and kind, sharing stories about navigating Stag family dynamics and offering insider tips for the gala.

"Whatever you do, avoid the shrimp puffs," Emerson advises. “No shellfish in Pittsburgh during months with no R. It’s a rule.”

“Totally a rule,” Fern adds. “That’s my best bartender tip.”

"I'll keep that in mind," I say, emerging from the fitting room in a dark purple gown with a sweetheart neckline. “I’m absolutely hoping not to stand out at this event.”

The words come out more wistful than intended, and both women exchange a glance.

"Trouble in paradise?" Emerson asks gently.

I hesitate, then decide on a partial truth. "Well, I mean, Alder is a wreck about the recent press stuff about him not being queer enough. And then, the team has a fraternization policy. It's... professionally complicated."

Understanding dawns on their faces. "It'll work out," Emerson says with confidence that seems unfounded given the circumstances. "The Stag family is nothing if not determined. When they want something, they find a way."

I don't share her optimism, but I appreciate the sentiment. "What do you think of this one?" I ask, changing the subject as I smooth the fabric over my hips.

"Stunning," Fern says immediately.

"Alder won't be able to keep his eyes off you," Emerson adds with a wink.

That's precisely the problem, but I don't say so. Instead, I study my reflection, hardly recognizing the woman looking back at me. The dress hugs my curves without constricting them, and the color makes my skin glow, and my eyes appear darker. I look powerful, confident, and beautiful.

Not at all like someone who should be hiding in plain black to avoid drawing attention.

"I'll take it," I decide impulsively.

The price tag makes me wince—more than I've ever spent on a single item of clothing—but after a lifetime of settling for whatever fit rather than what I actually wanted, it feels like a declaration—a statement that I deserve beautiful things, regardless of my size or relationship status.

As we leave the boutique, shopping bags in hand, Emerson links her arm through mine. "This was fun. We should do it more often."

"Definitely," Fern agrees. “Come to London and hang with me there.”

I smile, not correcting their assumption that I'll be part of these future plans. Letting myself enjoy the fantasy for just a little longer.

"Oh, look at that," Fern says suddenly, pointing across the street. "For Rent."

I follow her gaze to a small sign in the window of a brick building. The location is nice—Shadyside is an upscale neighborhood within walking distance of shops and restaurants, though farther from the training facility than ideal.

"Are you looking?" Emerson asks, confused.

"Yes, actually. My current situation is … temporary." That much is true, regardless of how much I wish it weren't.

"You should check it out," Fern encourages. "Shadyside's fun. Very grownup.”

Almost before I realize what I'm doing, I'm crossing the street, pulling out my phone to call the number on the sign. To my surprise, the landlord answers immediately.

"I'm essentially just around the corner," he says when I inquire about viewing the apartment. "Can you wait ten minutes?"

I agree, turning to wave at Emerson and Fern, who give me a thumbs-up from across the street before heading off with promises to text later.

The landlord, a middle-aged white guy named Jim, arrives shortly. He leads me through a side entrance and a narrow staircase to the second floor.

"It's not huge," he warns as he unlocks the door. "But it's clean, utilities included, and I installed new appliances last year."

The apartment is indeed small—a studio with a kitchenette along one wall, a bathroom tucked behind a pocket door, and a main living space that would serve as both bedroom and living room. A bay window overlooking the street provides the only real architectural feature of note.

It's objectively less nice than the place I shared with Brad and certainly a far cry from Alder's spacious townhouse. The bathroom is dated, the kitchen cramped, and I can already tell the closet space will be woefully inadequate.

But it's available immediately. And it could be mine alone.

"What's the rent?" I ask, already mentally calculating if I can make it work.

Jim names a figure that's high for the square footage but still within my budget—barely.

"Could I have a minute to think?" I ask.

"Sure thing. I need to take a call anyway." He steps out into the hallway, leaving me alone in the empty apartment.

I move to the window, looking out at the tree-lined street below. Despite its limitations, the apartment has good natural light, and the neighborhood feels safe. I could walk to shops and restaurants. Parking may be a bit of a nightmare, a far cry from the assigned spots at Alder’s.

Alder.

I close my eyes, allowing myself to remember this morning—waking in his bed, his arm thrown protectively across my waist, with Gordie snoring at our feet.

Despite the lecture from Brian, we fell into bed together that evening, wordlessly.

It all feels so right with him—the easy domesticity of making food together, his lips brushing my neck as he reaches past me for a mug or the salt.

The way his eyes follow me across the room as if he can’t quite believe I am there.

It would be so easy to stay. To keep pretending we can make this work. To sink further into the comfort and connection.

But Brian's words echo in my mind: "You slip up there, it's not just your ass on the line."

I can't be responsible for damaging Alder's career. And I can't risk losing the job I worked so hard to secure. Three hundred thousand dollars in student loans doesn't leave room for romantic indulgence. And it’s only a matter of time before Alder’s breakup catches up with him emotionally.

What we have is temporary, by definition—a summer fling. Eventually, it would end anyway. Better to make a clean break now before I'm in too deep.

If I'm not already.

Jim returns, and the phone call is completed. "So, what do you think?"

"I'll take it," I say before I can change my mind.

He seems pleased, pulling rental documents from his messenger bag. "Great. I can get you keys today if you've got the deposit."

Twenty minutes later, I stand on the sidewalk outside my new apartment building, keys in one hand, dress bag in the other.

A strange mix of emotions swirls through me—pride at taking this step toward independence, anxiety about telling Alder, and a hollow ache at the thought of no longer waking up beside him every morning.

My phone buzzes with a text from the man in question:

How's shopping? When will you be home?

Home. The word makes my heart clench. Alder's townhouse has felt more like home in two weeks than my apartment with Brad ever did in four years.

Shopping was successfu l

I reply, deliberately ignoring his second question.

Heading back soon.

I look down at the keys and then back at my phone. I should tell him. He deserves to know I've found a place.

But not yet. Not today. Today, I want one more night of pretending this summer fantasy could be real. Tomorrow will be soon enough for reality.

I slip the keys into my purse and head for the bus stop, the weight of my decision sitting heavy on my chest.