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Domenico has mentioned a few times that I was going shopping, but I didn’t know it kept getting pushed back because Carly had gone home to Phoenix to look after her dad when he got sick.

According to her, he’s better now, and she definitely isn’t doing this out of obligation. Carly loves shopping.

The attendants have already started pulling things. But none of the items look like something I’d feel good wearing. At least not at a glance. Maybe I’ll change my mind when I try it on.

“That’s nice,” I say when one of the women holds up a yellow blazer. “I’ll try it.”

The attendant beams. She hands it to a colleague who adds it to the growing pile on the counter.

Another woman holds up a silk shell in pale blue. “This would work beautifully with your coloring.”

“Okay,” I agree.

“And these trousers…”

“Yes, those are nice,” I reply automatically.

Carly watches this while sipping her champagne, her eyes moving from me to the attendants and back again. Then she sets her glass down on a nearby shelf and walks over to the rack where one of the women has set aside a dove-gray sheath dress.

She holds it up, turns it so the light catches the fabric, and looks at me. “Do you actually like this,” she asks, her voice flat and direct, “or are you just being agreeable?”

The question lands like a slap. I open my mouth. Close it. The attendants have gone still, their smiles frozen in place.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

Carly hands the dress back to the nearest attendant without ceremony. “We’re starting over,” she announces. “Mrs. DeLuca picks first. You may suggest second.” She turns to me. “Go on. Pick something you want to try.”

I stare at her. “I don’t—”

“You don’t have to buy it. Just pick something you think is pretty.”

The rack stretches away from me, a wall of fabric in every color I’ve never worn. I move down it slowly, my fingers brushing the hangers. Wool, silk, cashmere. Things I’ve only seen through store windows.

My hand stops on a deep green blouse. The silk is heavy and cool against my skin, the color so rich it’s almost black in the folds. I hold it for a second too long, then let my fingers slide past it.

“That one,” Carly says. She reaches past me and pulls the green blouse off the rack. “You stopped.”

I take it from her. The weight of the silk feels different in my hands now that I’ve chosen it.

“I like green,” I say. It comes out quietly, like a confession.

“Good.” Carly smiles. It’s not the practiced beam the attendants are giving us. It’s real, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “What else?”

I move through the store again, slower this time. My shoulders feel different. Less hunched. When an attendant holds up an ivory blazer and tells me it would be perfect for evenings, I look at it for a long moment.

“No,” I say. My voice is firmer than I expect. “I don’t think so.” I take it from her and place it back on the rack myself, smoothing the sleeve as I let go.

The attendant blinks. “Of course, Mrs. DeLuca. Perhaps something in a darker shade?”

“Maybe.”

By the time we’re ready for the fitting room, I have a stack of clothes in my arms that I actually chose. Not all of them—Carly still pulled things, and the attendants made suggestions that were actually good—but enough that when I look down at the pile, I can imagine myself wearing the clothes.

The green blouse sits on top. I run my thumb along the collar as we follow the attendant to the back of the store, and something warm settles in my chest, small and unfamiliar. It’s the feeling of wanting something and taking it.

The fitting room is bigger than my old bedroom. Three mirrors curve around a plush velvet bench, and the hooks along the wall are already loaded with clothes the attendants pulled, each hanger spaced exactly two inches apart.

The curtain is heavy silk, not the thin polyester I’m used to, and it falls closed behind us with a sound like water. Carly sits on the bench and crosses her legs. She’s pulled out her phone, but she’s not looking at it. Her eyes are on me.