I took out the emerald dress and held it against myself. It felt light, almost weightless, compared to the heavy cottons I usually wore.
I reached into my small jewelry box and took out my mother’s worn pearl earrings. They were small and slightly yellowed with age, but they were the only real jewelry I owned. I clipped them onto my ears, the cold metal pinching my lobes.
“You can do this,” I whispered to myself, looking at the wall. “It is just a dress.”
I stepped into the green silk, pulling it up over my shoulders. The zipper went up easily, the fabric fitting snug against my waist.
I walked out of the bedroom, my heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor.
Damon was coming up the stairs, his tie still loose around his neck. He stopped on the third step from the top, his hand gripping the banister. His eyes traveled from my shoes up to my neck, staying there for a long moment.
“Are you seriously wearing that?” he asked. His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.
“Yes,” I said, smoothing my hands down the skirt. “I bought it last week.”
“You look like you are trying too hard, Elena,” he said, adjusting his collar. “A woman your age in bright green. People are going to stare.”
“Let them stare,” I said, though my voice caught slightly.
“I am not going to let a beautiful evening go to waste,” I added.
Damon laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You always take things so defensively. I am just looking out for you. You do not want to make a fool of yourself in front of the kids.”
He turned around and walked down the stairs without waiting for me to answer.
I stood at the top of the stairs, my hand resting on the smooth wood of the railing. I could hear him downstairs, rustling his keys. I did not change my clothes. I walked down the stairs, opened the front door, and followed him out to the driveway.
The air was crisp, the smell of dry leaves rising from the pavement. We got into the car without speaking.
I sat in the passenger seat of the quiet car, smoothing my skirt as we drove toward the restaurant.
The engine of our sedan died, leaving only the hum of the heater and the click of cooling metal beneath the hood. Damon did not unbuckle his seatbelt. He sat with both hands gripped at twelve o’clock on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the windshield as if waiting for a light to change in the empty parking lot.
The dashboard cast a pale blue glow across his collar. He adjusted his tie twice, his fingers lingering on the silk knot, before he finally turned his head to look at me.
“Are you going to open your door?” I asked.
He did not move his hands from the wheel. He tapped his thumb against the leather wrap, three slow beats, then checked his watch, tapping the face twice.
“We have exactly three minutes before seven,” I said, looking at the digital clock glowing on the dashboard.
“I can see the time, Elena,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, sharp register he used when he wanted to ensure he had my full attention.
He adjusted his collar again, his fingers tapping against his neck. “And I can see what you are wearing. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t say anything?”
“I hoped you would say I look nice,” I said, looking down at my hands.
“I am not going to lie to you just to make you feel better,” he said. “That green is far too loud. It makes your skin look pale, and the cut is too low.”
“The saleswoman said it suited me,” I muttered, my voice trailing off.
