Speechless(174)

                “Chelsea. Look at me.”

                I lower my hands into my lap and look up at him through my                     blurry vision.

                “Hate is…it’s too easy,” he says. His face is calm, calmer than                     it has any right to be, his eyes not wavering from mine, like he’s so completely                     sure of what he’s saying. “Love. Love takes courage.”





                                      day thirty-four

                The mirror in my bedroom isn’t big enough for two                     people to use, so Asha takes her dress—carefully concealed in white plastic—and                     holes up in my bathroom. We have one hour before we’re supposed to meet everyone                     at Rosie’s. One hour is just enough time to get ready.

                I pull my dress out from the closet and slip into it, sliding                     the thinned-down straps over my shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles. The deep                     emerald fabric looks amazing with my red hair; I’m wearing it in loose, long                     curls that spiral down my back. The gauzy chiffon skirt is just long enough to                     trail when I walk, even when I try it on with my black heels.

                I look in the mirror and feel…good. Sexy. Sexy like I do when I                     solve a geometry problem right on the first try, or when I flipped over the tuna                     melt at the grill. This is even better because I did this—I made the dress look                     this way.

                Asha emerges from the bathroom, and I’m honestly stunned when                     she appears in my doorway. She’s dressed in a traditional Indian gown, ruby-red                     and embroidered with gold, matching gold bracelets all up and down her                     wrists.

                “Oh. My. God,” I breathe, and Asha smiles shyly.

                “You like it?” she says.

                “Are you kidding? It’s amazing,                     Ash. Where did you get that dress?”

                “It’s my mom’s.” She comes into the room, bracelets jangling as                     she walks, and beckons to my cosmetics bag. “Could you do my makeup? I tried                     doing eyeliner and almost poked out my eye.”

                I sit her down on my bed and get to work. Asha may know                     geometry, but I am the resident cosmetics expert. Smoky-black eyeliner, mascara                     to extend her lashes, a touch of gold glittery eye shadow, some dark dramatic                     lipstick—I explain everything as I put it on her.