Being rescued

Friday crawls toward me like a storm I can see coming but can't avoid.

By Wednesday, Tara is already talking about the club nonstop.

"A real city club," she says during lunch, practically vibrating in her seat. "Real music. Real people. Not this tiny-town recycled nonsense."

I stab my fries harder than necessary. "Small-town nonsense is peaceful."

"Small-town nonsense is boring," she shoots back immediately, like that ends the discussion.

Lizzie sits across from us quietly stirring her drink, trying to hide how excited she is and failing completely. Every few seconds she smiles to herself for no reason, then catches me looking and immediately ducks her head again.

She's nervous too, though.

I can smell it under the excitement.

Not fear exactly. More like anticipation. Like she's standing backstage before a performance and desperately hoping nobody throws tomatoes.

I'm not nervous about the club itself.

I'm annoyed by what it represents.

Attention.

Expectation.

One night of pretending to be the kind of girl my mother keeps hinting I should become.

June prowls lazily in the back of my mind.

We can handle a club.

I'm not worried about the club, I answer.

A pause.

You're worried about being looked at.

I don't respond, because she's right and I hate that she's right.

By Friday afternoon, Tara corners us at the lockers with the energy of someone announcing the apocalypse.

"Shopping," she declares, grabbing my wrist before I can dodge away. "Immediately."

"I have training."

"You can beat up your brother tomorrow," she says, already dragging me toward the parking lot. "Tonight you're going to participate in society."

Lizzie hurries after us, trying not to laugh. "Tara, maybe don't kidnap people in broad daylight?"

"Not kidnapping," Tara replies. "Rescuing."

From the back of my mind, June observes dryly,

We're being captured by glitter.

The mall is loud, bright, and packed with humans who have absolutely no idea they're shopping beside predators.

Tara moves through stores like she was born for this. Dresses fly over her arm at terrifying speed while Lizzie trails behind carrying hangers and trying not to get bulldozed.

Meanwhile, I sit on a bench outside the fitting rooms questioning every life choice that brought me here.

At one point Tara storms out of the dressing room wearing a tiny gold dress covered in glitter.

"Jackpot."

The dress barely qualifies as fabric.

I stare at her chest. "Your boobs look legally dangerous."

Tara gasps in delight. "I KNOW."

Lizzie claps immediately. "Oh my God, that's so hot."

"Everyone in the club is going to see your underwear."

"The more the merrier," Tara says proudly. Then she points at me. "Confidence is sexy, Catherine."

"Public indecency is also apparently sexy."

Tara ignores me.

Lizzie tries on dresses more carefully, stepping out each time with this hesitant expression like our reactions genuinely matter to her.

When she finally walks out in a dark blue dress that hugs her curves without trying too hard, I blink.

"Oh."

Lizzie immediately looks nervous. "Oh bad?"

"No," I say quickly. "No, you look really good."

And she does.

The dress makes her look older somehow. More confident. Like she's finally realizing she takes up space in a room.

Lizzie blushes hard while Tara practically tears up.

"My babies are growing up."

"Please never say that again," I mutter.

Then Tara's attention shifts toward me.

And I immediately know I'm doomed.

"Oh no," I say.

"Oh yes," Tara replies.

A black dress appears in her hands.

Sleek. Tight. Leather-look fabric with a square neckline and an open back that makes my blood pressure spike on sight.

Absolutely not.

"Tara—"

"Try it on."

"No."

"Cat."

"I said no."

Tara lowers her voice slightly. Not teasing now. Serious.

"You don't have to become someone else tonight," she says. "You just have to stop hiding all the time."

I cross my arms. "I'm not hiding."

"You kind of are."

That irritates me because she's wrong.

Which means she's at least partially right.

I snatch the dress out of her hands and disappear into the fitting room mostly out of spite.

Ten minutes later I step back out.

Silence.

Tara freezes mid-breath.

Lizzie's eyes widen slowly.

I immediately tug at the neckline. "Don't."

Tara presses a hand dramatically against her chest. "I'm going to faint."

"It's too much."

"It is literally exactly enough," Tara argues.

"It's not me."

Lizzie shakes her head softly. "It is you."

I glance at her.

She smiles a little. "Just... a version you don't let people see very often."

That hits harder than I want it to.

Before I can argue, Tara suddenly grabs all three dresses and sprints toward the cashier like a woman fleeing a crime scene.

"TARA."

"TOO LATE."

I whirl toward Lizzie. "She wouldn't actually—"

Lizzie winces sympathetically. "She absolutely would."

By the time we reach the parking lot later, shopping bags are already loaded into Tara's trunk and my fate is sealed.

I glare at her while she unlocks the car.

"Why are you like this?"

She shrugs without a shred of guilt. "Because someday you'll thank me."

June stretches lazily inside me.

Or we'll burn something down.

No fires, I warn immediately.

No promises, my wolf replies.