Jessa

Mariah’s bedroom looks like the aftermath of a fashion tornado. Clothes are scattered across her bed, hangers hooked on the doorknob, shoes kicked into the corner. She’s sprawled on the carpet, painting her nails like the mess doesn’t exist. Meanwhile, I’m standing in front of her mirror, tugging at the hem of the black top she made me borrow.

“It’s too tight,” I mutter, turning sideways and frowning at the way it hugs my stomach.

“It’s not tight, it’s fitted,” ...