Jessa

Mariah’s car smelled like cinnamon gum and the vanilla air freshener she claimed she didn’t buy on purpose (she totally did). The windows were cracked, letting in the cool October air, and the radio was low enough that I could hear the nervous tapping of my fingers against my thigh.

We were on our way to the seamstress—both of our Homecoming dresses in garment bags in the back seat—and my stomach had been in a knot since I woke up.

Mariah glanced over at me as she pulled ...