Chapter 6: The Shopping Trip
The sequined dress was a mistake. A glorious, shimmering, pumpkin-orange mistake that Hanna held against herself, beaming at her reflection in the boutique’s full-length mirror. The neon glow from the mall’s central atrium outside the window painted shifting blue and pink streaks across the fabric.
“It’s a moment,” Hanna declared, turning to show Nat and Mona. “A ‘remember that time Hanna wore the pumpkin disco ball to the fundraising gala’ moment.”
“It’s definitely a moment,” Nat agreed, leaning against a rack of tailored wool blazers. Her smile felt genuine, a brief respite from the constant low hum in her skull. “The question is, what kind of moment? Triumphant entrance? Or tragic, glittery vehicular accident?”
“Visionary,” Hanna insisted, laughing. She twirled, the dress scattering light across the curated racks. “Caleb will hate it. That’s how I know it’s perfect.”
Mona, perched on a velvet stool near a display of delicate silk scarves, offered a measured smile. “The cut is actually quite flattering. It’s the color that’s committing the felony. But sometimes felony is what the occasion calls for.”
This was the performance, Nat thought. The Saturday girls’ trip. Normal sister bonding. She was here to observe, to piece together the mosaic of this town from its broken, glittering shards. And, she knew, she was being observed. Mona’s gaze, clever and birdlike, missed nothing.
“So, Mona,” Nat began, her tone casually curious as she thumbed through a stack of cashmere sweaters. The fiber was soft as a whisper. “Hanna says you’ve been back in Rosewood, what, almost two years now? After… everything. That’s a big move. What brought you back?”
Hanna flitted to another rack, momentarily distracted by a leather jacket. Mona’s eyes stayed on Nat, cool and appraising. “The same thing that brings anyone back to their hometown, I guess. Unfinished business. Revised editions of old stories.” She picked up a scarf, running the silk through her fingers. “And Hanna. You don’t abandon your real friends in the middle of their story.”
The answer was smooth, rehearsed. It sounded true. It probably was true. But it was also a container that could hold a multitude of darker truths.
“I get that,” Nat nodded. “It’s brave. A lot of people would just… run.”
“Running is exhausting,” Mona said, her voice light. “And ultimately, you just end up somewhere else with the same luggage. I decided to unpack mine here. Renovate.”
Hanna returned, the orange dress now draped over her arm, a more sensible navy shift in her other hand. “Mona runs the alumni outreach for Hollis now. She’s terrifyingly good at it. Gets donations out of people who graduated before color television was invented.”
“It’s about understanding what people want to remember about themselves,” Mona said, her eyes flicking to Nat. “And then offering them a mirror that shows exactly that.”
The comment hung in the lavender-scented air. Nat felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mall’s overzealous AC. She turned to a row of vintage-inspired dresses, letting her hand glide over the fabrics. “It must be weird, though. Coming back to a place with so much… history. Seeing how everything’s changed.”
Mona tilted her head. “Or how it hasn’t. The faces at the country club are a little older. The gossip at the Brew just has newer names attached. The foundations are all the same. It’s the renovations that are interesting.”
Nat chose a simple black sweater, holding it up as if considering it. She needed to pivot, to dig for a specific fracture line. “Hanna mentioned you’re close with some of the DiLaurentis crew now. Jason, Alison, that whole… scene.” She injected a note of harmless curiosity into her voice. “How on earth did that happen? That seems like a pretty tight circle to crack.”
For the first time, Mona’s perfectly composed mask showed the faintest hairline crack. Not in her smile, which remained, but in her eyes. They sharpened, calculating the angles of the question. It was there and gone in a nanosecond.
“Mutual survival,” Mona answered, her tone breezy. She stood and began neatly refolding a pile of scarves a previous customer had disheveled. “When you go through certain kinds of fires, you recognize the same kind of smoke on other people. It’s not about cracking a circle. It’s about realizing you were standing in the same one all along, you just couldn’t see each other through the ash.” She looked up, meeting Nat’s gaze directly. “Alison and Charlotte… they understand the cost of remodeling a life. There’s a respect there.”
It was a good answer. Poetic, even. It explained everything and nothing. Nat nodded slowly, as if accepting the wisdom. “That makes sense. I guess Rosewood’s the kind of place that forges those kinds of bonds. Whether you want them or not.”
“Exactly,” Mona said, her smile widening a fraction. “It’s the town’s special magic. It ties people together in ways that look like coincidence from the outside.”
Hanna, blissfully unaware of the minefield she was wading through, called from the fitting room corridor. “Nat! Come tell me if this navy one makes me look like I run a non-profit or if it’s secretly chic!”
“Duty calls,” Nat said, returning Mona’s smile with one of her own. They held the look for a beat too long—two predators politely acknowledging each other’s scent.
In the plush fitting room, Hanna was scrutinizing her reflection in the navy dress. “Well?” she asked.
“It’s smart. Powerful. You look like you’re about to give a TED Talk on crushing your enemies,” Nat said, leaning against the door frame.
“Good.” Hanna sighed, turning to look at her sister. Her expression softened, the cheerful shopping armor slipping. “Hey. Are you okay? You seem… I don’t know. Quietly intense today.”
Nat’s heart clenched. The concern was real, warm, and utterly misplaced. It was also a weapon her sister didn’t know she was wielding. “I’m good, Han. Really. Just adjusting. It’s a lot, being back. Seeing all these dynamics. You have this whole full life here.”
“And you’re part of it,” Hanna said, fiercely. She grabbed Nat’s hand. “Don’t get all observer-mode on me. This is your life now too. You have friends here. You have me. And Caleb likes you, which is a miracle. And Spencer asked about you the other day. You’re in.”
You’re in. The words echoed horribly in Nat’s mind. She squeezed Hanna’s hand. “I know. I’m glad. It’s just taking my brain a minute to catch up to reality.”
Hanna nodded, satisfied. “Well, hurry it up. I need a partner in crime for the fall gala. And you’re not wearing black.”
They left the boutique an hour later, Hanna with a triumphant shopping bag holding the navy dress (“The pumpkin will live on in my memory,” she’d sighed), Nat with the simple black sweater, and Mona empty-handed but seeming the most satisfied of all.
Parting waves at the mall entrance, promises to do it again soon. Hanna headed to her car, chatting about dinner with Caleb.
Mona paused before turning toward the parking garage. “It was good to talk, Nat. Really. You ask interesting questions.”
“You give interesting answers,” Nat replied.
Another shared smile, a silent tally of points scored. Then Mona disappeared into the flow of Saturday shoppers.
The drive back to her apartment was too short. The silence in the car was filled with the echoes of Mona’s polished explanations. Mutual survival. The same circle. The cost of remodeling.
Nat’s sanctuary no longer felt like one. The quiet rooms were loud with implication. She dropped her bag by the door. The three objects on the low table stared back at her, a silent tribunal.
The perfect blue vase. Noel’s offering.
The flaw-gilded bowl. Alex’s signature.
The crimson book. Their shared manifesto.
She walked to the table, but didn’t sit. She stood over them, her reflection fragmented in the vase’s glossy curve. Mona’s words churned. It’s about understanding what people want to remember about themselves. And then offering them a mirror that shows exactly that.
What did she want to remember about herself? That she was smart, cautious, in control. That she could diagnose the sickness from a safe distance.
But the images from the night before, the raw, screaming climax she had given herself thinking about them, told a different story. That was what she wanted. The sickness itself. The surrender. The terrifying, magnetic pull of the flaw.
Her phone buzzed on the table, lighting up with a new notification. Then another. Two texts, arriving within seconds of each other.
The first, from a number she’d saved only recently.
Noel: Saw a first edition of Plath’s ‘Ariel’ at the rare books shop on Elm. Thought of you. It’s brutal and beautiful. Just like your analytical mind. Coffee tomorrow to discuss tragic heroines?
A flutter low in her stomach. An invitation to a game of intellect, a shared language of darkness.
The screen lit again.
Alex: The bowl needs a purpose. It’s not for keys or change. It’s for something you need to remember is broken. Meet me at the sculpture courtyard at 7. I’ll show you what I put in mine.
A direct command. A shared ritual of broken things.
Two mirrors held up. One showed her a dazzling, dark-minded equal. The other showed her a fellow damaged thing.
She looked from the phone screen to the three objects on the table, then to her own fractured reflection in the vase. The performance was over. The audition was beginning.
Her thumbs hovered over the screen. The hum in her skull wasn’t anxiety anymore. It was anticipation. A key turning in a lock she’d been leaning against for years.
She typed two replies, her breath steady, her hands not shaking at all.
To Noel: Only if you’re prepared to lose the debate. 10 AM.
To Alex: I’ll be there.
She sent them, one after the other. The decision wasn’t a choice between them. It was a choice for the pull, for the heat, for the intricate, beautiful danger they represented together.
Putting the phone down, she finally picked up the gold-seamed bowl. It was cool and solid in her palm. The crack was a topographical map of a personal earthquake. She carried it to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and took out a small, sharp paring knife. She held the blade for a moment, feeling its weight.
Then, with deliberate calm, she placed the knife in the bowl.
It fit perfectly. The flawed vessel held the sharp object. A history of breakage, now containing the means to break other things.
She set the bowl back on the table, the knife inside gleaming dully under the lamplight. It was a statement. To herself. To them.
She was unpacking her luggage. She was ready to renovate.