𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝗔𝗻 𝗔𝘅𝗶𝘀

"𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚... It's gorgeous."

Mallorie lifted her chin, angling her head and smoothing her hands over the front of her black dress. Its velvet fabric cinching her waist and stopping just a handful of inches above her knee, the design conveyed an alluring elegance perfectly. The material hugged her waist then slightly flared around her thighs while the scoop neckline and thin straps brought a touch of flirtation to its modesty. She then shifted her gaze from admiring her dress to look at Heather through the reflections of her vanity. "You really think so? You think he'll like this one?"

"If he doesn't like it, give him the boot and I'll be your date tonight!" Heather jested with an even more humorous level of enthusiasm.

Mallorie turned to give her friend a coy smile. "Michael's such a sweetheart, I doubt he'd say anything if he didn't. I could be wearing a potato sack for all he cares," she said matter-of-factly, readjusting the claw clip's grip on her curls for what seemed to be the dozenth time.

A cigarette waiting to be lit and dangling at the corner of her pink-glossed lips, Heather quirked a light brown brow. "Isn't that how a man's supposed to treat his lady? Say yes to everything or risk gettin' tweaked on the ears?"

Mallorie giggled then shrugged. "I'm not one to play doctor and dictator on the same day as—" She paused, the titular word apprehended in her throat by the stunning ambiguity of her relationship with Michael.

"Girlfriend?" Heather finished tartly, clicking her tongue when Mallorie swiftly turned to face the mirror again. "Don't tell me Peter Pan the Rockstar hasn't made the distinction yet."

Mallorie brushed her thick curls back against the sides of her head then twisted them upwards from where they were gathered in one of her hands, securing them in place once again with her claw clip. She briefly wondered if the action was an excuse to occupy the jittery nature of her hands or if it was her poor attempt at appearing more sophisticated. Dodging her embarrassment, she said, "Why are you asking? To see if you still have a shot?"

"Absolutely not," Heather snorted. "Besides, I was more of a Beatles Mania girl back in the day. If he's got a hookup to Paul still and thinks they're pineapple-friendly, give him my number."

Mallorie erupted into laughter, feeling her face flash with heat at the very thought of approaching such a subject with Michael. Quite vividly, she could picture his reaction: a quiet groan of mortification under his breath, his large hand and long fingers coming across his face to cover it, abashed chuckles shaking his body. In the form of flutters of delight in her stomach, she was reminded of the sore amount she had missed him.

Since returning home to Encino, she was back to adoring Michael from a distance. With the bobbing sort of quality to their relationship, she should have guessed that the end of the tour's first leg would bring about another pair of weeks spent pining. Had she known better and that Michael's occupational obligations would soon be the weight to bring her side of the see-saw down, she would have savored the feeling of him in her arms the way she would the last morsel of food before a fast. That treasured nap before his last rehearsal— before which he gave her promises of being together with confidence—was the last time she held him and kissed him. That she had seen him sleep. And while his sweet letters, brief late-night conversations and flower bouquets assured her that his feelings toward her remained, they simply weren't the same.

"He did ask me on a date, didn't he? So that says something," Mallorie mused, ripping her stare from the mirror to dissuade herself from fussing over her appearance any longer. "And we talked before I came home."

Heather was smirking at her. "Talked with your love-making parts or with your mouths?"

Mallorie sucked her teeth and swatted a hand at Heather then grabbed at her purse to fish out a maroon lipstick. "You're so dirty, you know that? Need a whole bottle of lye for that brain."