Page 33

Lyla

T he fluorescent lights in the conference room are buzzing like an anxious fly. Cathy’s already five minutes into a monologue about the Play It Forward Annual Tour schedule when I realize: she’s winding up for the ask. I can feel it. The air shifts. My palms start to sweat.

“ . . . and we’ll need to assemble at least a hundred of the volunteer packets. Ideally by Monday,” she says, scanning the room like she’s tossing a frisbee and waiting to see who’ll catch it. “Lyla, you’re so great with that kind of stuff—”

Here it is.

“—do you think you could put those together over the weekend?”

I glance around the room. Josie is doing everything in her power not to make eye contact. One of the interns coughs. Cathy’s already writing my name next to “Volunteer Packet Assembly” on her color-coded list.

But I don’t let her finish.

“Actually . . . ” My voice surprises me. It’s steady. I sit up straighter. “I can’t take that on this weekend.”

Cathy’s pen pauses in midair.

“I’ve got some other obligations,” I continue. “And I want to make sure I can do the things I’m already responsible for well.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Cathy blinks. “Oh.”

Just that: Oh .

And then, like nothing happened, she turns her gaze to Josie. “Josie, could you start on that tomorrow?”

She nods like she’s been waiting for this baton all along.

That’s it. I said no. And the world didn’t explode.

No thunder cracked. No lightning struck. No one revoked my badge or questioned my loyalty. Cathy didn’t even roll her eyes.

I glance down at my notes and let myself smile. It’s small—barely there—but it’s real. I underline the word “boundaries” in my planner and cap my pen with finality.

Saying no didn’t make me less helpful. It made me honest. And honestly? That feels like growth.

It’s Friday evening and I’m getting ready for my date with Drake. Hazel holds up two dresses like we’re on an episode of What Not to Wear: Delusional Dating Edition.

“This one says ‘confident and mysterious,’” she says, shaking a strappy red slip dress. “And this one says ‘I bake muffins and talk to dogs but still look like a ten.’” She lifts a blue A-line dress with a sweetheart neckline.

“I kind of want to wear something that feels . . . like me,” I murmur.

Hazel turns to study me, her expression shifting. “Okay. Spill.”

I press my lips together. “It’s just—what if he only likes me when I’m glammed up? When I look like her. Like Red.” I say the nickname like it’s both a joke and a ghost.

Hazel softens. “The lipstick and the dress didn’t make you Red. You made her unforgettable.”

I roll my eyes. “He clearly forgot.”

“No, he forgot your name. But I don’t think he forgot you.

” Hazel takes my hands in hers, rubbing her thumbs—which are both stacked with rings—over my skin in a motherly way.

“Look, Lyla. He asked you —not Red—on a date, didn’t he?

And, um, hello, let’s not forget: you are Red!

Which, honestly, I think Mr. Quarterback Pants will be stoked to find out. ”

I sigh, trying to accept what Hazel is saying. “I just wish I knew why he didn’t even save my number that night or try to call me.”

“We can only meet people where they are—with the information we’ve got. And right now? You don’t have the whole story. When you do, then you can decide how you feel about it. But let’s not go borrowing stress from a future that hasn’t even happened yet.”

I take a deep breath and nod. She’s right. I don’t have to have this all figured out right now—and maybe I never will—but all I can do in this moment is the next step: getting dressed.

I bypass Hazel’s dress options and head to my closet.

I dig in the very back for a dress I bought years ago but never had an occasion to wear.

When I find it, I hold it out in front of me, showing Hazel.

It’s floral and flowy, with little cutouts on the sides.

It’s feminine and beautiful and all the things I want to be, but am never quite sure that I am.

“It’s perfect,” Hazel breathes out. “It’s you , Lyla.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” She holds out the skirt of the dress. “It’s what you’d wear if you weren’t trying to hide yourself all the time.”

I try not to get emotional at her words— try being the operative word—before I slip into the dress. It fits me as if it were tailor-made for me, which only makes me more teary.

Why have I waited so long to let myself be seen?

I take off my glasses, opting for contacts tonight. Hazel does my makeup—keeping a light hand with the eyeliner at my request. But when she hands me the same lipstick I wore that night—Strawberry Glaze—it suddenly feels heavier than a piece of makeup has any right to.

I apply the lipstick, my heart hammering. This is it .

My phone buzzes beside me, making me jump.

Drake

The driver said he’s outside but take your time. See you at Vizcaya soon :)

My breath hitches. I show Hazel the screen and she whistles. “Vizcaya?! Girl, he’s not playing. That’s not just dinner—that’s courting. ”

I laugh, nerves still buzzing. “You think I can do this?”

Hazel squeezes my hands. “No question.”

I stare at myself in the mirror, red-lipped and freshly lined, and take a breath. “Okay. But I’m not going as Red. Not really.”

“Nope,” Hazel says. “You’re going as Lyla. Just, you know . . . with great lighting.”

I nod, my stomach flipping.

Tonight, I’m saying yes.