"Are you ready?" Remy calls from the bathroom.
"Yeah, I'm all done," I answer as I swipe another layer of lip gloss on. I lean back to take a final look at myself in Jax's full-length mirror, fluffing my hair one more time.
I decided to wear a bodycon dress that hasn't seen the outside of my closet since before Steve, for the sole reason that it completely hugs my every curve. The dress' blue color brings out the blue in my eyes, and combined with my blonde hair that I've left naturally straight, even I can admit I look like a Barbie doll. The only difference between us is my height—at a whopping 5'2, I rarely go out without some kind of heel on. Tonight is no exception.
I... look good. I look like a woman. I've never liked flaunting my body, but I've always known I feel best when I look good, so I enjoy putting effort into my appearance. But it's been a while since I've dressed up to the extent that I like to dress up.
I think about the last time I dressed like this.
It’s been longer than I want to admit.
I inhale a shaky breath when I think about how much my appearance has changed in the last year. Steve never liked it when I wore anything tight because he said I was "showing off my body" and that I should have respect for my boyfriend by not wearing anything too revealing. I got way too comfortable wearing pants and flowy tops instead of the dresses that I love to wear.
I never even realized that I was doing it. In hindsight, he had me so wrapped up in his manipulation that it never even occurred to me that it was an unreasonable request. At the time, I just thought I was making a compromise and being respectful to my boyfriend. I never realized how much of Steve’s bullshit I had internalized.
Now, I feel like I have to recalibrate my brain to remember that a boyfriend shouldn't control how you dress. A boyfriendshouldbe your cheerleader and should support any outfit that makes you feel good about yourself.
The knowledge that I can now wear anything I want is surprisingly daunting. I take a deep breath and spin in front of the mirror, smiling, reminding myself yet again that I have nothing to feel guilty about. Reminding myself that it's okay to be beautiful, to look sexy, that I should feel happy to express myself in whatever way makes me feel good.
"Okay, the Uber is ten minutes away so—holyfuck."
I turn to see Remy in the doorway, gaping at me.
I smooth my dress down, shuffling nervously in my sky high heels. "Do I look okay?"
Her eyes snap to mine. "Do you lookokay?" she asks incredulously. "Dude, you look like a fucking Victoria's Secret model. Lucy is going tokillyou. She was all excited to be the center of attention tonight with some new side-boob outfit she bought."
That makes me laugh. "I'm sure she'll still get plenty of action."
"Not if you're anywhere within twenty feet of her," Remy scoffs. Her gaze becomes thoughtful. "I feel like it's been forever since I've seen you dressed up like this." She softens as our eyes meet. "It's good to have you back."
I smile, and in a moment of uncharacteristic affection, I walk over to my sister and give her a hug. She stiffens for a second but then softens and squeezes me back.
She pushes me away, not quite able to tamp down on her smile. "Yeah, yeah, enough with the mushy shit," she mumbles. "Let's get out of here. You ready?"
I smile and nod, already feeling lighter than I have in months. I grab my purse and follow Remy down the stairs.
Tristan is sitting on the living room couch; he lets out a loud whistle when he sees his girlfriend.
"Goddamn, baby, you look hot." She smirks and twirls in place, showing off the leather pants and red backless top that she picked out for tonight. I can practically see the lust darken Tristan's eyes as he stands up and pulls her flush against his body.
"You're lucky you're going to a gay bar, or I wouldn't let you out of my sight," he growls against her neck. She giggles when he nips at her ear.
"What if we weren't?" The question bursts out of me before I can think to stop it.
Tristan pulls away from Remy with a surprised look. "What?"
I swallow roughly and decide to commit to the question. "Would you let her out like that if we were going clubbing? Like, not to a gay bar?"
Tristan's brow furrows, but before he can reply, Remy opens her mouth to express some kind of outrage, if the flashing in her eyes is any indication.
Tristan clamps his hand over her mouth before she can get a word out. "The question wasn't which limb you would cut off if I ever tried to tell you that youcouldn'tdo something," he says dryly, giving her a knowing look. She relaxes in his arms, but her eyebrow quirks at him anyway.
He just shakes his head and turns back to me, his hand dropping from Remy's mouth. He gives me that trademark, dead-serious look of his before he answers.
"I would never tell her what she could or couldn't wear," he answers honestly. "I would never tell her what she could or couldn't do. Remy can make her own decisions. If she asks for my opinion, I'll give it, or if I think she's doing something that's putting her in danger, I'll voice my concerns, but ultimately, Remy is her own person. I have no right to dictate any part of her life."
I can only nod. I have no response to such an honest answer.