She was certain of one thing. Nathan wasn’t some fun distraction. Checking her phone for his messages had become a compulsion. Now there were meandering late-night calls when they should both be asleep. In every conversation, they said the same thing beneath their words.
“You alone again?” I want to see you.
“Lenora’s here.” It’s a bad idea.
“Does that woman have a hobby?” I don’t care.
“Upholding the patriarchy. And ironing sheets.” I have to care. And I don’t trust myself with you.
Rachel knew that if she were in the same room as Nathan again, she would kiss him. He wouldn’t even have to do that half smile or say something sweet, insightful, or infuriatingly wise for a guy his age. She’d just kiss him. She replayed the fantasy of his lips on hers so many times it was almost a memory. No, this wasn’t a fun distraction. There was nothing fun about being swept into an undertow when you weren’t even swimming.
Rachel stared at the navy-blue cocktail dress hanging on her closet door. It had been there since the ghostly pale woman Matilda Abbott paid to dress every member of her family had stopped by with the preapproved attire. Rachel had never actually agreed to let her mother-in-law pick out her clothes. It was more like a slow erosion of agency that she stopped resisting when the Abbotts made it clear they didn’t trust her judgment.
She used to love fashion. It tapped into that same part of her that could spend hours rearranging canvases on a gallery wall. She used to love taking risks with outfits and watching the reaction when she walked into a room. But it only took one Hot or Thot? caption in a local gossip column for her mother-in-law to suggest developing a quieter brand.
“People are cruel,” Matilda Abbott had said in her typical terse, bored tone. There was no judgment. Only disappointment that Rachel hadn’t figured it out sooner. Matt could marry a Black woman. He could have a Black daughter. He could even marry a Black woman with a Black daughter she conceived as a teenager. He could not have a Black wife who dressed in a way that reminded everyone that she might actually enjoy sex and wasn’t ashamed of having a child out of wedlock before she was old enough to vote.
“Who is blowing up your phone?” Keely White approached her with a bottle of leave-in conditioner and a blow-dryer. She was the only member of the Abbott-approved glamour team that Rachel had hired herself. Clothes were one thing, but she drew the line at a European waif smearing ashy makeup over her face. “Is it Faith? Tell her I got that tea tree shampoo she likes.”
Rachel hid her phone against her thigh. “I’ll let her know. So, what are we doing with my hair this time?”
Keely plugged in the blow-dryer. “Same as always? Silk press, bump the ends.” She paused. “Maybe we could add some barrel curls since it’s a party.” Her eyes brightened and she held up a finger. “Oh, I got something for you. Hold on.” She moved away and started digging through her bags again.
Watching her, Rachel realized that Keely was the only person in her life who wasn’t connected to Matt in some way. Rachel had stopped reaching out to her college friends when her father died, because watching them succeed at what she’d abandoned was too painful. She’d barely gotten to know her coworkers at the café before Matt swept her off her feet and into his exclusive social circle, people who acted as her judge and jury.
Rachel picked up her phone and put her panicked thoughts into a text.
Rachel: I don’t have real friends anymore.
Nathan responded almost instantly.
Nathan: That’s not true. You have me.
His words were reckless, chipping away at all the reasons she should keep her distance. But he couldn’t know how vulnerable she was right now—exposed and raw in places that hadn’t seen daylight in years. “Be careful with me,” she whispered.
“Did you say something?” Keely appeared behind her holding a hair clip. It was a flower made of pavé diamonds and black crystals that glittered when she tilted her hand. “I know it’s a little flashy, but there’s not much going on with that dress over there.”
“A black dahlia.” Rachel took it from Keely’s hand. “You know what they mean, don’t you?”
“Murdered white lady in the forties, right?”
“Betrayal.” Rachel set the hair clip on her vanity next to her phone. “They’re supposed to be a warning.”
When Rachel walked downstairs, Matt’s face turned the crimson color of her lipstick. The black dahlia was pinned above her ear, and the Abbott-approved dress was still upstairs on the hanger. Instead, she wore a black leather dress that fit her like a pair of driving gloves. The right side flashed a mile of leg whenever she took a step, and the low neckline plunged a few inches above her navel. “Welcome home.”