The morning came in slow and uninvited.
My eyes opened before the rest of me was ready, and for a long moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling like it owed me an explanation. The blanket was warm. The floor would be cold. The party was tonight, and I had made a promise I was already regretting.
I sat up.
Then I sat there for another full minute.
Then I got up, because Charlie would never let me hear the end of it if I cancelled, and some part of me, the part that occasionally made terrible decisions, had genuinely said yes.
The phone pinged from somewhere in the sheets. I didn't need to look to know who it was.
Tell me you're awake. Tell me you're not going to bail on me. Eve. EVE.
Three texts in a row. I found the phone and typed back " I'm awake" and that was enough to set off a chain of emojis that I scrolled past while dragging myself toward the bathroom.
The shower helped marginally.
By the time the doorbell rang I was out, hair damp, pulling a towel tighter around myself and scanning the bedroom floor for whatever clothes I'd left out. Then a knock at my door that didn't wait for an answer.
Charlie walked in.
She was already dressed, a short red number that she absolutely pulled off, hair done, eyeliner sharp enough to double as a weapon. She looked at me standing there in a towel and put both hands on her hips.
"Why aren't you dressed?"
"I just got out of the shower, Charlie."
"The shower that was supposed to happen an hour ago?"
"The shower that happened when it happened." I turned back to the dresser. "Give me ten minutes."
"You don't have ten minutes, you have five, because I already told Edd we'd be there by—" She stopped. Behind me I heard the sound of my closet sliding open. "Where's the dress?"
I didn't answer immediately.
"Everly Rose Carver."
"Don't full-name me."
"Where. Is. The dress."
A pause. A sigh. I crossed to the dresser, opened the second drawer from the bottom, and held it out without turning around. The silence that followed was somehow louder than anything she'd said so far.
"You put it in a drawer."
"That's where clothes go."
"You put it in the back of a drawer under what looks like a scarf and three books—"
"It was safe there."
"From what? Moths?" She took the dress from my hand and held it up, tilting her head like she was inspecting it for damage. "Okay. It's fine. It's still perfect actually." Then she reached into the bag she'd dropped by the door and produced a pair of tights with the energy of someone presenting a solution to a very long-standing problem. "I knew you'd find a reason to say no to the dress alone. I came prepared."
I looked at the tights. I looked at her. "You planned this."
"I planned for you." She pressed both into my arms and pointed at the bathroom. "Go. Five minutes. I'll do your makeup when you're done."
"I can do my own—"
"Eve."
"Fine."
She wasn't wrong about the dress.
When I came back out, I stood in front of the mirror for a moment longer than I usually allowed myself. The black off-shoulder dress hit mid-thigh, and the tights solved the problem I'd been quietly rehearsing all day. I didn't look bad. I looked different, like a version of myself I didn't fully recognize but wasn't entirely opposed to.
Charlie appeared behind me.
"Okay," she said, very quietly. Then louder "Okay, no, Eve, you look insane."
"It's not too much?"
"It's perfect. Sit down, let me do your face."
I sat on the edge of the bed and let her work. She had a focused precision when she did makeup, all the energy in her that was usually scattered and loud compressed into something careful. She talked while she worked, because Charlie was physically incapable of silence, but it was easier to absorb than most conversation. She talked about Edd, about the party, about how he'd made it onto the basketball team's bench, "which is still the team, Eve, stop making that face" until twenty minutes had passed and she stepped back.
In the mirror was a face that looked like mine, but more present somehow. Less like someone trying to disappear.
"Charlie."
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For all of this."
She rolled her eyes but there was something soft underneath it. "You're my best friend. Obviously." Then the softness folded back into business. "Boots or flats?"
"Boots. It's cold."
"Good call." She grabbed her bag. "Let's go."
All the way down to the car, Charlie talked. About the party, about Edd, about how someone named Josh had apparently done something at last week's gathering that got more interesting with each sentence. She didn't stop until we were both buckled in and moving.
"Everly, I'll probably be with Edd most of the time so head back in a couple of hours if you can't find me. I know how much you hate parties, but I really am glad you're coming. For my sake. You're the best friend ever."
Her hand got squeezed in response. Words the right kind had never come easily to me.
Freshman year was what had brought us together. Same major, almost identical class schedules, and a quiet recognition between two people who didn't quite belong in the louder parts of campus life. Back then, being alone felt safer especially after high school, after the friends who had chosen Mia's expensive gifts over any loyalty to me. But life had given me Charlie, and for that I was genuinely, quietly grateful.