Page 215 of Power Play

“Drink your coffee, princesa.”

I took a sip while he grabbed his mug and leaned against the counter. For several minutes, Wednesday didn’t exist. Neither did Klein, Flint, the Frost bus, my parents, deadlines, or any of the things that could reach into a good moment and remind me that enjoying it always came with a price.

There was only Ryan barefoot in his kitchen, country music playing again because I refused to let him turn it off, and the strange happiness of discovering some ridiculous new piece of him after believing there couldn’t possibly be anything left.

Eventually, he looked at the clock. “Shit.”

“Time caught you.”

“Don’t start.”

“You were dancing.”

“You asked.”

“I absolutely didn’t.”

“You called me mi amor. That legally qualifies as a request.”

I smiled into my coffee. “I like it.”

“What?”

“Calling you that.”

Ryan’s expression softened. “Then keep doing it.”

The answer followed me back toward the bedroom. I dressed while he finished packing, and by the time I pulled my sweater over my head, my phone had vibrated three more times.

Aura wanted to know if I was alive. Bliss sent an aggressively inappropriate string of emojis.

The last message was from my mother.

Mother: Please wear the navy dress if it still fits properly.

My stomach tightened.

If it still fits properly.

Those five words were enough to strip away the fragile calm I had found in Ryan’s kitchen.

I looked toward the bathroom. Ryan was brushing his teeth, and the shower ran hard enough to cover the sounds of me opening my purse.

Pressure moved through me almost immediately. Klein’s paper. Wednesday. The dress. My father. My mother looking at my body across a restaurant table. Ryan leaving. The confidence I had built last night suddenly felt too thin to survive beneath all of it.

The small measuring tape was buried inside my cosmetic case beneath tissues and lipstick. I found it before I could convince myself to leave it alone and carried the case into the kitchen.

I knew the dress fit. I had worn it less than a month ago. Knowing should have been enough, but my mother’s message had already planted the certainty that something had changed and everyone would see it the moment I walked into dinner.

My fingers shook slightly as I wrapped the tape around my waist.

The number was almost exactly what it had been the last time I checked, but almost became its own accusation. I adjusted the tape and pulled it tighter. The number changed, and a thin stream of relief moved through me.

I checked again.

Then I measured my hips, my thigh, and my waist for a third time, committing every number to memory while deciding what I could remove from breakfast and lunch before Wednesday.

Last night, Ryan had given me pieces of himself no one else had ever been trusted with and told me I was getting all of him. I had looked him in the eye and promised that nothing he showed me could make me turn away.