Chapter 20: The Gardenia
I watched his patrol car disappear around the bend, the gardenia's perfume drifting on the breeze. Then I was moving, my feet carrying me up the porch steps and through the front door, the screen slamming behind me. I took the stairs two at a time, my sundress catching on my thighs, and kicked off my sandals in the bedroom doorway.
The dress hit the floor in a pool of cotton. My bra followed, then the thong, and I stood naked in front of the mirror for just a moment, taking in the flushed cheeks, the damp hair, the soft curves still gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Then I stepped into the shower and turned the water hot.
Steam billowed up, filling the small space with warmth. I let the water pound against my shoulders, washing away the grit and grass clippings, feeling the heat seep into muscles I hadn't known were sore. The soap smelled of lavender, the same scent that lingered in the bedroom, and I worked it into a lather across my arms, my stomach, the heavy weight of my breasts. My hands moved slowly, savoring the sensation of skin against skin, the way the water sluiced over the curve of my hips.
I tilted my head back, letting the water run through my hair, and thought about the evening ahead. His mother, coming to my house. Allan, watching me with those flint-gray eyes. The gardenia blooming on the porch. A beginning, unfolding out of everything I'd thought was lost.
I shut off the water and stepped out, wrapping a towel around myself. The mirror was fogged, my reflection a soft blur, but I smiled at it anyway. I had time before six. And I knew exactly what I wanted to wear.
The towel was soft against my skin, rough from a few weeks of use. I dried off quickly, the steam still curling in the air, and padded barefoot across the bedroom floor to the closet. I hadn't spent much time in there since I'd arrived, just enough to grab the basics. The clothes had all come with the house, curated by people I'd never meet, chosen for a woman I was still learning to be.
I pulled the door open and ran my hand along the row of hangers. Most of it was casual, jeans and tees and tank tops, but toward the back, pushed against the wall, hung a dress. I pulled it out and held it up to the light.
It was a sundress, pale blue with thin straps and a modest neckline that wouldn't show anything I didn't want to show. It had a small floral pattern, delicate white blossoms scattered across the cotton, and it fell just past my knees. It felt like the kind of thing a daughter would wear to meet her boyfriend's mother for the first time. The kind of thing that said, I made an effort, but I didn't try too hard.
I laid it across the bed, smoothing the fabric flat, then turned to the dresser. The top drawer held the underthings, all new, all in their neat little compartments. I reached for a bra, a simple white one with no lace, nothing fussy. Matched with a plain white thong from the same drawer. Modest. Honest. The kind of underwear a good girl wore.
Me, a good girl.
I laughed softly at that, the sound swallowed by the quiet room. Justin Zygurski had been many things. Accountant. Witness. Coward, maybe, for the years he'd spent looking the other way. But a good girl? That was new.
I stepped into the thong, working it up over my hips, then reached behind me for the bra. I'd gotten better at the clasp, my fingers finding the hooks with an ease that surprised me. The cups settled over my breasts, snug and supportive, and I adjusted the straps, feeling the weight of me lifted, contained.
The dress went on next, sliding over my head, the cotton cool against my skin. It fell into place, skimming my curves, the straps settling on my shoulders. I turned to the mirror and looked at myself. The neckline was modest, a soft scoop that showed the hollow of my throat and nothing more. The fabric nipped in at my waist before flaring gently over my hips. It was a kind dress. An unassuming dress. A dress that said, I am not a threat. I am just a girl who wants dinner to go well.
I smoothed my hands down the front, feeling the cotton against my palms. Underneath, I could feel the shape of me, the weight and give of my body, the way the thong sat snug against my skin. I thought about what I would tell her, Allan's mother. The script I'd rehearsed played in my head, the story Vance-Ross had given me. My parents died in a house fire. I needed a fresh start. A small town felt like the right place to find one.
The lies sat heavy in my throat, but they tasted familiar now. I'd told them once already, to Allan, and he had believed me. Or at least, he had accepted me. That was enough.
I sat down at the vanity, the small table with its round mirror and its collection of cosmetics I'd barely touched. I had experimented with makeup once, and it had gone surprisingly well. Now I faced the mirror again, the afternoon light soft on my face, and picked up a tube of foundation I'd noticed in the drawer.
My hands moved with more confidence than they should have. A dot here, a dot there, blended outward with my fingertips. The foundation evened out my skin, softened the sun-pink flush from mowing, gave me an even canvas. I added a touch of concealer under my eyes, where I'd been sleeping less than I should. Then a little mascara, sweeping the brush through my lashes, and a soft pink lipstick that I blotted with a tissue.
I sat back and looked at myself.
The woman in the mirror was pretty. She was more than pretty, she was beautiful, with her honey-blonde waves and her bright blue eyes and her sundress like a summer morning. I still didn't fully recognize her. Some mornings I woke up and reached for a body that wasn't there, expecting Justin's flat chest, his broad shoulders, the weight of his thirty-six years. But more and more, the face in the mirror was becoming mine.
I picked up the blow dryer and went to work on my hair, the warm air lifting the strands, coaxing them into soft waves around my shoulders. I brushed it out afterward, watching the honey tones catch the light, the way it fell in gentle curves against the pale blue of the dress.
Funny, I thought, setting the brush down. A week ago, I wouldn't have known what to do with any of this. I'd never worn makeup as Justin. Never thought about it, never wanted to. It was a language I didn't speak, a ritual I'd never learned.
And yet my hands had known. They'd picked up the brush like they'd held it a hundred times. My fingers had found the right shade, the right pressure, the right blend. It was like the body knew things I didn't, had instincts I'd never asked for.
It was terrifying, that thought. And it was also, in a strange way, comforting. Some part of me was settling into this new skin, learning its rhythms, its rituals. I wasn't just wearing Sabrina anymore. I was becoming her.
I capped the lipstick and stood, smoothing the dress one last time. In the mirror, a girl I was starting to know looked back at me. She was nervous. She was hopeful. She was about to meet the mother of the man who had, against all odds, made her feel like she had a place in the world.
I walked to the window and looked out at the yard, the neat stripes of mown grass, the gardenia bright on the porch railing. The sun was beginning its slow slide toward evening. Six o'clock would be here soon enough.