The dress had been a good idea at nine in the morning.
White cotton, the fabric crinkled and light in the way of something that had been made for exactly this kind of day — spaghetti straps, a lace-up corset front with black ties that crossed and knotted at the center, the waist gathered and smocked before the skirt fell in an asymmetrical ruffle that swept longer at the back than the front, mid-thigh in front, grazing her calves behind. She had worn it with her brown leather cowboy boots and the small cream-colored crossbody bag that held her phone, her wallet, and the worn-smooth worry stone she'd carried since Gwendolyn gave it to her at fifteen — smooth grey quartz, the size of a thumb, a thing to hold when her hands needed something.
She had looked at herself in the mirror before le
