Chapter 4: The Pink Dress and the Mirror
The dress was a problem.
Hannah held it up by the hanger, watching the fabric catch the lamplight. Pink. Floral. The kind of thing she would have worn three years ago, back when she still believed her body was hers to decorate. She hadn't seen it since the move into this dorm, hadn't even remembered packing it.
"No," she said.
"Yes," Abby countered from the bed.
"I can't wear this."
"You absolutely can." Abby had claimed the pillow pile like a queen holding court, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder, her arms crossed in a way that meant business. "You asked me to help. This is me helping."
"I asked you to help me find something that wouldn't make me want to crawl out of my own skin."
"This won't."
"It's pink."
"It's coral. There's a difference."
Hannah stared at the dress. The flowers embroidered along the hem seemed to mock her. "I'll look ridiculous."
"You'll look like you're going on a date instead of attending a funeral." Abby swung her legs off the bed and crossed the room in three steps. She plucked the hanger from Hannah's fingers and shoved the dress against her chest. "Bathroom. Now. Before I call Jay and tell him to bring a backup date."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Hannah tried to think of a witty retort. Nothing came. She was too busy fighting the cold knot tightening in her stomach — the one that whispered she had no business going on a date, no business letting Jay see her like this, no business pretending she was the kind of girl who deserved nice things.
But Abby was still holding the dress. Still looking at her with that steady, unflinching patience. And Hannah remembered Jay's face last night, the way he'd looked at her when he said he loved her. She remembered the weight of his hand in hers.
She took the dress.
The bathroom tile was cold against her bare feet. She peeled off her clothes and caught her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. Pale skin. Sharp collarbones. The garden of ink blooming across her chest and shoulders, vines spiraling down her arms in a tangle of petals and leaves she'd gotten done a year ago, an attempt to cling to her old self.
Now she stepped into the dress and watched the flowers emerge from beneath the fabric like they'd been waiting for permission.
The dress fit differently than she remembered. Tighter across her hips. Softer against her skin. The neckline plunged just low enough to reveal the petals scattered across her chest, and the sleeves ended at her elbows, leaving the rest of the tattoo bare for the world to see.
She looked like someone else. Someone who hadn't spent two years hiding.
She almost turned back to the bathroom door, almost tore the dress off and dove back into her closet of black sweaters. But Abby knocked twice on the doorframe, a sharp rap that said stop stalling.
"You alive in there?"
"Debatable."
"Come out anyway."
Hannah took a breath. Let it out. Opened the door.
Abby's face did something complicated. Her smirk softened into something quieter, something that looked almost like pride. She didn't say anything. Just stepped back and gestured toward the room with a sweep of her arm.
Jay was standing in the doorway.
Hannah hadn't heard him arrive. She'd been too focused on the mirror, the dress, the tightrope she was walking between herself and the ghost of who she used to be. But now he was there, and he was looking at her, and every thought she'd had about turning back evaporated.
He wore a fitted polo the color of dark navy, the sleeves ending at the swell of his biceps. His arms were tan from the summer, corded with muscle from years of hauling lumber and shingles and whatever else the construction gigs threw at him. His hair was still damp from the shower, and his jaw was clean-shaven, and he was staring at her like she'd just walked out of a dream.
Not a word escaped him. Just that stare. Hungry and reverent and so completely, devastatingly focused that Hannah felt her cheeks flush with heat.
"You're staring," she said. Her voice came out smaller than she intended.
"I'm allowed."
"Says who?"
"Says the guy who waited two years to ask you out." He stepped into the room, hands in his pockets, but his eyes never left her. "You look..."
"Ridiculous?"
"Like a goddamn painting."
Abby snorted from somewhere behind them. "Okay, that's my cue. You two are giving me a cavity."
She grabbed her jacket from the desk chair and slipped past them, pausing at the door to jab a finger toward Hannah. "You. Have fun. Don't overthink it."
"And you?" Hannah asked.
"I'll be at Kyle's. Probably watching him play video games and ignoring my responsibilities." She winked. "Standard Thursday."
Then she was gone, and the door clicked shut behind her, and the room felt smaller somehow. Just the two of them. The lamp light. The dress. The quiet.
Jay pulled one hand from his pocket and held it out.
"You ready?"
Hannah looked at his hand. Remembered the last time she'd taken it — the automatic reach, the warmth of his palm, the way he'd held on like she mattered. She'd spent so long believing she didn't deserve that. That she was too damaged, too complicated, too much work.
But he was still standing there. Still holding out his hand. Still looking at her like she was the best thing he'd seen all year.
She took it.
His fingers curled around hers. Warm. Steady. Unhurried.
"You look beautiful," he said. Just like that. No flourish. No poetry. Just the truth, laid out in the open.
"Thanks," she whispered. "You don't look so bad yourself."
"I know."
"Modest."
"I'm a catch. You should know that by now."
She laughed. The sound surprised her — real and bright and almost familiar. Jay's grip tightened, just a fraction, and he pulled her gently toward the door.
The hall was quiet. The stairwell hummed with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. They descended in silence, their footsteps echoing off the concrete walls, and Hannah focused on the feel of her hand in his, the solid warmth of it, the way it anchored her to the present instead of letting her drift into the past.
Outside, the evening was cool and clear. The sky was a bruised purple, the last of the sunset bleeding gold across the horizon. Campus was alive with the sounds of early autumn — leaves skittering across the pavement, distant laughter, the low thrum of someone's car radio.
They walked in step. Her dress swirled around her knees. His thumb traced slow circles on the back of her hand.
"You nervous?" he asked.
"Terrified."
"Me too."
She glanced up at him. "You? You're never nervous."
"I'm always nervous around you." He shrugged, like it was nothing. "Been that way since the day we met."
"You're just saying that."
"I'm really not."
They passed the library. The fountain. The old oak tree where they'd spent a dozen afternoons studying, talking, avoiding the things they actually wanted to say. Hannah remembered one night in particular — spring of freshman year, before everything fell apart. Jay had thrown a tennis ball at her head to get her attention, and she'd retaliated by shoving him off the bench. They'd ended up sprawled on the grass, laughing so hard her ribs ached.
She hadn't laughed like that in a long time.
"You remember that night we tried to scale the humanities building?" she asked.
"The one where you almost fell off the fire escape?"
"I didn't almost fall. I caught myself."
"You screamed for ten seconds straight."
"That was an intentional sound. A battle cry."
"It was a scream."
She shoved him with her shoulder. He laughed, and the sound wrapped around her like a blanket.
They reached the restaurant a few minutes later — a small Italian place tucked between a bookstore and a coffee shop. The windows glowed warm, and through the glass Hannah could see white tablecloths and candles flickering in amber holders.
Jay pulled open the door and gestured her inside. "After you."
"Such a gentleman."
"I have my moments."
The host seated them at a corner table. The restaurant smelled like garlic and basil and fresh bread, and Hannah's stomach growled loud enough that Jay heard it.
"Glad to know you're eating again," he said.
"I'm a work in progress."
"Aren't we all."
They ordered wine — a small glass for Hannah, a beer for Jay. She watched him scan the menu with the same focused intensity he applied to everything, and she felt the familiar tug of affection in her chest.
"You're staring," he said without looking up.
"I'm allowed."
"Nice callback."
"I try."
He set down the menu and met her gaze. "How are you doing? For real?"
She thought about the question. Really thought about it.
"I'm okay," she said. "Not great. Not perfect. But I'm here. I'm sober. I'm wearing a pink dress." She glanced down at herself. "Which is terrifying, by the way."
"You're doing good."
"I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"What shoe?"
"The one that says I don't deserve this. That I'm too messed up to be doing something normal like having dinner with someone who actually wants to be here."
Jay leaned forward, elbows on the table, his expression serious.
"You deserve good things, Hannah. And I'm not saying that because I'm trying to get you to sleep with me or because I'm being nice. I'm saying it because it's true. You've been through hell, and you're still here, and you're still trying, and that counts for something."
Her throat tightened. She looked away, blinking fast.
"We don't have to talk about it," he said. "The heavy stuff. Not tonight. I just want you to know that I see you. I've always seen you."
She nodded. Swallowed. Took a sip of wine to steady herself.
"I see you too," she said. "Even the parts you don't want anyone to see."
Jay went still.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
She looked at him — really looked at him. At the tired lines around his eyes, the quiet grief he carried like a second skin. His father in prison. His mother dead. No siblings. No family. Just a long history of loss he never talked about, never let himself feel.
She'd held that pain in her heart for years. Kept it safe. Unspoken.
"Nothing," she said softly. "Just... I know you. That's all."
He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, and the tension in his shoulders eased, and he turned back to the menu.
"You should get the fettuccine," he said. "It's got some kind of cream sauce situation. Life-changing."
"You've been here before?"
"Once. With Abby and Kyle. They argued about which appetizer to order for twenty minutes."
"The calamari."
"How'd you guess?"
"Kyle's predictable."
They ordered the fettuccine and the calamari with a side of sarcasm. The food arrived hot and fragrant, and they ate and talked and laughed and argued over the last piece of bread.
For a while, the world narrowed to just the two of them. The candlelight. The taste of garlic. The warmth of his knee brushing hers under the table.
No bottles. No hiding. No need to disappear.
When the check came, Jay paid without asking. Hannah didn't argue. She just watched him sign the receipt and felt something settle in her chest — quiet and heavy and almost like hope.
They walked back through campus, slower this time. The stars had emerged, scattered across the dark sky like spilled sugar. The air smelled like woodsmoke and cold.
Jay stopped at the edge of the quad, where the fountain murmured in the dark.
"Hannah."
She turned to face him.
"I meant everything I said last night." His voice was low. Steady. "And everything I said tonight. I'm in this. For as long as you'll let me be."
She stepped closer. The dress rustled. The flowers on her arms caught the moonlight.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"So am I."
They stood there, two people with more scars than they knew what to do with, and the distance between them shrank to nothing.
She reached for his hand again. Held on tight.
"Let's be scared together," she said.
He smiled. The kind of smile that reached his eyes, that crinkled the corners, that made her feel like she'd just won something she didn't know she'd been fighting for.
"Deal," he said.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they reached her dorm, he kissed her goodnight. Soft. Sweet. A promise whispered against her lips.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.
"You will."
She climbed the stairs alone, but she didn't feel alone. The weight was still there, the memories, the fear, the long road ahead. But beneath it, something new was taking root.
She let herself into her room and locked the door behind her. The desk was clean. The bottles were gone. The dress felt lighter now, less like armor and more like skin.
She hung it on the back of her chair instead of burying it in the closet.
Then she climbed into bed, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and closed her eyes.
Sleep came easy.