I'm in the middle of a double shift when Marshall walks in.
The restaurant is slow—it's a Tuesday, gray and drizzly, the kind of day that keeps people home—so I notice him the second he pushes through the door. Tall. Well-dressed in that effortless way some guys have, like they woke up looking like that. He spots me immediately, waves, and slides into a booth by the window.
I grab a menu I don't need and walk over.
"Didn't peg you as the Italian food type," I say.
He grins. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Hannah."
I roll my eyes—but I'm smiling. Marshall has that effect. He's been coming in more often lately, always friendly, always easy to talk to. A regular, I guess, though I'm not sure when that happened.
"What's with the face?" he asks, nodding at me. "You look like someone cancelled Christmas."
I sigh. "It's nothing. Just—" I stop. Shrug. "I have this party to go to. A friend's birthday. And I have no idea what to get her."
"Rachel's party?"
I blink. "How did you—"
"Josh, Rachel's dad, invited me," he says. "Our families go way back. We've met at a few things over the years—charity events, mostly."
I stare at him. Marshall and Rachel. Same circles. Of course. Why does that keep happening—these connections I never see coming?
"So you know her," I say slowly.
"Know her? Not really. But I've seen her around." He tilts his head. "You're stressing about a gift for Rachel Carrington?"
"I don't know what she'd like. She has—" I gesture vaguely. "Everything."
Marshall laughs. "Yeah, she does. But that's not the point." He leans forward, and his voice shifts—less teasing, more genuine. "Rachel doesn't care about stuff. She cares about whether you bothered. If you put thought into it, she'll notice. Trust me."
I let that sink in.
Outside, the rain is coming down harder now. The window's streaked with it, everything beyond the glass blurring into grays and muted colors. A girl hurries past, hunched under an umbrella, a flash of red scarf whipping in the wind.
Red. Warm. Bright against all that gray.
Something clicks.
"A scarf," I say.
Marshall raises an eyebrow.
"I could knit her a scarf." The words tumble out faster now. "I know how. And it's cold out, and—" I look at him. "You think she'd like that?"
He smiles. Real smile, not the teasing one. "I think she'd love it."
I feel lighter suddenly. Like something I didn't know was heavy just lifted.
Marshall's watching me. "You got a dress yet?"
The lightness evaporates.
"No." I can hear how flat my voice goes. "I don't really... I mean, I wasn't planning to—"
"Hannah." He cuts me off gently. "When's your shift end?"
I glance at the clock. "Fifteen minutes. Why?"
He leans back. "I'll wait. We're getting you a dress."
The mall is overwhelming.
Not the kind of overwhelming that makes you want to leave—the kind that makes you feel small. Glass cases filled with things I can't afford. Mannequins in poses I couldn't replicate if I tried. Lights bouncing off polished floors, off jewelry, off the glossy surfaces of stores that probably don't even list prices because if you have to ask, you can't pay.
Marshall doesn't walk through the mall so much as glide. Everything about him says I belong here, and the mall seems to agree.
"First," he says, "hair."
He steers me into a salon—all chrome and white surfaces and women in black smocks moving with purpose. A stylist materializes beside us, all smiles and sharp eyes.
"What are we thinking today?" she asks.
I freeze. I don't know. I've never known. My hair has always just been... hair. Something I wash and brush and forget about.
Marshall nudges me. "Tell her what you told me."
I look at the stylist. "Um. My face shape? You can... do whatever works with that?"
Her face lights up like I've given her a present.
"Finally," she says. "Someone who trusts the process."
She sits me in a chair that spins and leans and reclines in ways chairs shouldn't. There's water running somewhere, soft music playing. The stylist's fingers are in my hair, lifting sections, letting them fall, muttering to herself in what might be French or might just be enthusiasm.
Then the scissors come out.
I close my eyes.
Snip. Snip. The sound is oddly soothing. Warm water on my scalp. Something that smells like honey being worked through my strands. More snipping. Heat from a blow dryer. The occasional murmured consultation I can't quite follow.
I don't know how long I sit there. Long enough to almost fall asleep. Long enough to forget where I am.
Then: "Open your eyes."
I open them.
The girl in the mirror has brown curls. Soft ones, falling around her face in waves that catch the light. She looks... pretty. Actually pretty. Like someone who belongs in a magazine, or a movie, or one of those stores I was just feeling small in.
I touch my hair. It's soft. Bouncy. Nothing like the limp, forgettable strands I woke up with.
"Holy shit," I whisper.
Behind me, the stylist beams.
Next: makeup.
Another chair, another expert. This one has me take off my glasses, and I blink at my own blurry reflection while she works. Brushes dusting my cheeks. Something cool along my eyelids. A lipstick that smells like cherries.
"Your friend picked out some dresses for you to try," she says, gesturing at a rack I hadn't noticed.
Marshall. While I was getting my hair done, he was choosing dresses.
I don't know what to do with that.
When the makeup is done, she hands me my glasses and points me toward the fitting rooms. I gather the dresses—there are five of them, all in colors I'd never pick for myself—and close the curtain.
The first one is black. Elegant, but something feels off. Too severe, maybe.
The second is dark green. Pretty, but not... me.
The third is burgundy. Close, but not quite.
Then I pull out the fourth.
Blue. A deep, rich blue that reminds me of something—ocean at night, maybe, or the sky just before the last light fades. It falls just above the knee. Simple lines. No sequins, no sparkle, nothing that screams look at me.
I slip it on.
The fabric slides over my skin like it was made for me. The fit is perfect—how? how did he know?—and when I turn to the mirror, I forget to breathe.
The girl staring back isn't me.
She's someone else. Someone from a story. A princess, maybe, or the heroine in a film where things work out. Her hair catches the light. Her eyes look bigger, brighter. The dress hugs her in all the right places, and she stands differently in it—taller, steadier, like she belongs in her own skin.
I open the curtain.
Marshall's sitting on a bench across from the fitting rooms, scrolling through his phone. When he looks up, his face does something I can't quite read.
The makeup artist gasps. "Oh, honey. Oh, that's the one."
I turn to the three-way mirror. Study myself from every angle.
"It's beautiful," I say quietly. "But, It's expensive."
Marshall walks over. "I know. But here's the thing." He meets my eyes in the mirror. "I pay now. You pay me back later. Whenever you can. No interest, no deadline, no stress."
I open my mouth to argue.
"Hannah." His voice is gentle. "You need a dress. I can help. Let me help."
I look at myself again. At the girl in the blue dress who doesn't look like me but maybe could, someday.
"Okay," I whisper.
We're walking out of the mall, bags in hand, when Marshall's phone rings.
He glances at the screen. His face changes—subtle, but I catch it. Tension in his jaw. A slight straightening of his shoulders.
"I have to take this." He's already stepping away. "I'm sorry—something came up. Can you get home okay?"
"Yeah, of course, I—"
But he's already gone. Jogging toward the parking lot, phone pressed to his ear, disappearing into the gray afternoon.
I stand there for a moment, holding my dress, feeling the first cold drops of rain on my face.
Then I start walking.
I'm maybe two blocks from campus when I see her.
A figure up ahead. Familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten. Gray hair pulled back. Trench coat. The way she walks—quick, purposeful, like she's always running late to somewhere important.
I know that walk.
"Dr. Hinton?"
She turns.
Julia Hinton. My mentor. The reason I'm studying psychology. The woman whose award I cried over in my bedroom two years ago.
For a second, she just stares. Then her face breaks into something I've never seen on her before—genuine surprise, warm and open.
"Hannah?" She's walking toward me now. "Hannah, is that you?"
I nod, suddenly shy.
She reaches me, grips my shoulders, looks me up and down. "I barely recognized you. You look—" She laughs. "You look beautiful. What's the occasion?"
"Party," I manage. "Friend's birthday. I don't usually—this isn't—"
"Stop." She squeezes my arm. "You look wonderful. Own it."
I feel my face heat.
"What are you doing here?" I ask. "I thought you were in Chicago."
"I was." Something flickers across her face—there and gone. "I'm here for a while. Consulting, mostly. Thought I might teach a course at the university, but..." She trails off.
I wait.
Her eyes scan the street. Quick. Checking. The way people do when they're nervous.
"Dr. Hinton?" I lower my voice. "Is everything okay?"
She looks at me. Really looks, the way she used to when I was interning for her and she was teaching me something important.
"Can we get coffee?"
We find a place a few blocks away. Small, warm, the windows fogged from the rain outside. She orders tea; I get coffee just to have something to hold.
For a while, we make small talk. School. My classes. Her work. It's easy, familiar, like no time has passed at all.
Then she sets down her cup.
"I wanted to teach here," she says quietly. "They offered me a position. Visiting professor, just for a semester. I said yes."
"That's amazing—"
"It fell through."
I blink. "What? Why?"
She's quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is careful. Measured. Like she's choosing every word.
"I have a patient. A young woman. Her family is... influential. Very influential." She pauses. "They're not happy with my involvement."
My stomach tightens. "In what way?"
"Surveillance, mostly. People following me. Listening. Making sure I don't—" She stops. Shakes her head. "It's complicated."
"Who?" The word comes out before I can stop it. "Who's doing this?"
She looks at me. Her eyes are tired in a way I don't remember.
"The Carringtons."
The name hits me like a physical thing.
Carrington.
Rachel's last name. Rachel, who's been hiding scars and taking anxiety meds and drinking herself to sleep. Rachel, who cried on my shoulder two nights ago.
"Dr. Hinton," I say slowly. "The patient—the young woman you're treating—"
"I can't tell you that, Hannah." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You know I can't."
I do know. Patient confidentiality. The most basic rule of everything she taught me.
But I also know there's only one Carrington daughter.
I sit back in my chair. The coffee's gone cold in my hands.
Julia watches me for a moment. Then she reaches across the table, touches my wrist.
"Come visit me," she says. "I'm here for a few months. We'll catch up properly—not like this, rushed and strange." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I've missed you, Hannah."
"I've missed you too."
We finish our drinks in silence. Comfortable, mostly, but there's something underneath it now. A weight neither of us mentions.
Outside, the rain has stopped. Julia hugs me goodbye—longer than usual, tighter—and then she's walking away, her figure shrinking down the wet street until I can't see her anymore.
I stand there for a long time.
Thinking about Carringtons. About patients and secrets. About Rachel, asleep in our room, carrying things I'm only beginning to understand.
The dress bag hangs heavy in my hand.
I turn toward campus and start walking.