2

“I can’t—I can’t do this—I just can’t—”

The voice shattered like breaking glass, raw sobs echoing off bathroom tiles. I froze in the doorway, staring at a figure in midnight blue collapsed over the sink, shaking like she was coming apart at the seams.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, stepping closer. “You okay?”

Her shoulders jerked violently. “No,” she choked out, not looking up. “I’m not okay. Nothing’s okay. Everything’s falling apart and I can’t—”

“Okay, breathe,” I said, because standing there felt useless. “What’s wrong? You look like a goddess having a nervous breakdown, which is both tragic and weirdly impressive.”

She yanked paper towels from the dispenser with frantic hands. “Do you—” Her voice scraped hoarse. “Do you need help?”

I ran cold water, rinsing the sour taste from my mouth. “Not unless you know someone desperate for an English teacher who just bombed an interview spectacular enough to make me puke.”

Her watery blue eyes snapped to me. “You just got fired?”

“Not today. But they won’t hire me.” I attempted a smile. “Hard to get good references when your last boss was a predatory asshole who made sure I’d never work again.”

“Wait.” She blinked, momentarily distracted. “Your principal?”

“Made a pass. I said no. He destroyed my career.” I shrugged like it didn’t gut me daily. “Hence the puking in a high school bathroom after yet another dead-end interview.”

Her mouth actually twitched. “Hence? You really are a teacher.”

“Former teacher,” I corrected, digging through my bag. “Gum?”

“God, yes. Please.” She grabbed for it like a drowning woman.

I dropped an Orbit into her palm, watched her shove it between her lips and chew like it might anchor her to reality.

“So what’s your damage?” I asked, leaning against the wall. “Because that dress costs more than my car, and you’re having a meltdown in a school bathroom.”

“I can’t go out there,” she said, eyes squeezed shut.

“Where’s ‘out there’?”

“The event. The photographers. Everyone waiting for me to smile and pose and pretend I’m not completely falling apart inside.”

“Ah. Alumni thing?”

She nodded miserably. “I was supposed to give a speech about success. About making it.” Her laugh was bitter as poison. “What a fucking joke.”

“Why’s it a joke?”

“Because I’m a fraud,” she whispered. “Standing there talking about achievement when I can barely leave my apartment without panic attacks.”

I studied her—this beautiful, broken woman in couture, shaking like a leaf. “What’s your name?”

“Constance. Constance Montana.”

“Alicia Evans.” I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you, Constance. Now—want to tell me why you’re really losing it?”

She stared at me for a long moment. “Too many people. Too many eyes watching, judging, expecting perfection when I’m barely holding it together.”

“Okay. So let’s make you disappear.”

“What?”

“The hallway’s empty. I could check if—”

“No!” Panic sharpened her voice. “The photographers are everywhere. Event planners circling like vultures. One photo of me looking like this and it’s front-page gossip tomorrow.”

“Again, you mean?”

Her face went crimson. “There was an incident last month. Charity gala. Too much wine, too many people, suddenly I’m crying in the coat check. Made Page Six.”

“Ouch.”

“My publicist is still doing damage control.” She looked from me to her reflection, then back. “So you get why I can’t be seen like this again.”

I looked from her designer gown to my cheap jeans and rumpled blouse. An absolutely insane idea started forming.

“Constance. How tall are you?”

“Five-seven,” she said, confused.

“I’m five-four. Close enough.” I gestured between us. “Want to trade?”

Her eyes went wide. “What?”

“Your fancy dress for my teacher clothes. You want to disappear? Be invisible? No one looks twice at a boring English teacher.”

“You’d do that?”

“Why not? I already bombed the interview. Might as well look fabulous while drowning my sorrows in bad pizza and self-pity.”

She stared like I’d offered her the moon. “This dress—it’s Elie Saab. Fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Jesus Christ. Fifteen grand? For fabric?”

“Couture fabric,” she corrected weakly.

“Still. That’s more than I made in three months.” I shook my head. “You seriously want to give me a dress worth more than my student loans?”

“If it gets me out of here without anyone recognizing me, absolutely yes.”

I studied her face—the desperation, the barely-contained panic, the way she was gripping the sink like her life depended on it.

“You’re really that terrified.”

“Completely terrified,” she whispered. “I can’t do the speech. Can’t smile for photos. Can’t pretend I have my shit together when everything’s falling apart.”

“Okay.” I made my decision. “Let’s do this. But if your dress doesn’t fit me, I’m keeping it anyway as emotional labor payment.”

She actually laughed—watery and broken, but still a laugh. “Deal.”

“And if I look ridiculous, you’re buying me therapy.”

“Also deal.”

“Good. Now help me out of these tragic pants.”

⸻

“Suck in,” Constance commanded, tugging the dress’s corset strings.

“I’m trying,” I gasped. “Jesus, how do you breathe in this torture device?”

“Very carefully. And with excellent posture.” She stepped back, eyeing her work. “Oh my god.”

“That bad?”

“No—that incredible. You look…” She trailed off, staring.

I turned to the mirror and froze. The woman staring back couldn’t be me. The midnight blue fabric transformed my body into curves I didn’t know existed, beading catching fluorescent light like actual stars.

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

“Language,” Constance said automatically, then laughed. “God, I sound like my mother.”

“This dress has supernatural powers. Like, actual magic.”

“Right? I felt the same way.” She was stuffing herself into my jeans, fabric straining dangerously. “These pants hate me.”

“Join the club. I bought them three sizes too small because I’m Allieusional about my body.”

“They’re not too small. You have curves.” She managed to zip them, barely. “How do I look?”

I assessed her. My bargain blouse pulled tight across her chest, jeans ending at her ankles like capris, elaborate updo completely at odds with the discount outfit.

“Like a trust-fund baby doing method research for a poverty role,” I said honestly.

She winced. “That bad?”

“Actually, no. You look real. Like a person instead of a magazine cover.”

“Is that good?”

“Very good. Less intimidating.” I paused. “Though the hundred-dollar hairdo’s a giveaway.”

“Right.” She started pulling pins out frantically. “Help?”

I reached over, carefully extracting bobby pins while she worked from the other side. Her hair fell in waves, instantly making her look younger, softer, human.

“Better,” I said. “Now you look like a grad student having an existential crisis.”

“Perfect. I can work with existential crisis.” She caught herself in the mirror and smiled—the first real smile I’d seen. “This might actually work.”

“You want to know the best part?” I asked, sliding my hands down the dress’s sides.

“What?”

“Feel this.” I grabbed her hands, pressing them into the fabric folds.

Her eyes went huge. “No fucking way.”

“Pockets,” I grinned.

“Pockets!” She shoved her own hands inside immediately. “Best. Dress. Ever.”

“Right? I might never take this off.”

“Take this too,” she said suddenly, unclasping a gold necklace. A blue pearl pendant caught the light as she pressed it into my palm. “It belongs with the dress.”

“Constance, I can’t—this is real, isn’t it?”

“Very real. And very much yours now.” Her voice was firm. “It goes with the dress.”

I fastened it around my throat, feeling the weight of actual gold, actual pearls. “This is completely insane.”

“The best things usually are.” She wiped away the last tears. “Give me two minutes to escape, then you can go.”

“Where will you go?”

“Home. Uber. Bath. Wine. Probably cry some more, but at least in private.” She paused at the door. “Hey, Alicia?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For this. For not asking a million questions. For just… helping a complete stranger having a breakdown.”

“Thank you for trusting said stranger with your fifteen-thousand-dollar dress and apparently priceless jewelry.”

“Best transaction I ever made,” she grinned. Then, serious: “I hope you get the job.”

My stomach dropped. I’d almost forgotten the interview disaster. “Yeah. Me too.”

“You will. Teachers like you—ones who actually give a shit about people—you’re rare.”

“How do you know I give a shit?”

“Because you helped me. A total stranger losing her mind in a bathroom. That’s not normal behavior.” She smiled. “That’s someone who actually cares.”

The door swung shut behind her, leaving me alone with my reflection. I looked like I belonged at charity galas and society events, not teaching teenagers about Shakespeare in suburban classrooms.

My phone buzzed against the marble counter.

Peter: How did it go?

Peter: You okay?

Peter: Pizza—what kind?

I typed back quickly: Running late. Hawaiian. Always Hawaiian.