It’s Friday, and Shanice has me in the most ridiculous dress ever, heading to a club. I swear, if anyone saw me right now, they’d think I lost a bet. A short, strapless, skin-tight, red dress that leaves little to the imagination. It clings to me in ways I didn’t think fabric could cling, squeezing the air out of my lungs and the last shred of dignity from my soul.
My hair is down, cascading over my shoulders in loose waves that Shanice insisted on tousling like I’d just rolled out of bed after an intense night of God-knows-what. My heels are so high I’m pretty sure they classify as medieval torture devices.
I’m sitting stiffly in the passenger seat of Shanice’s car, clutching my tiny purse like it’s a lifeline. “I can’t even breathe in this dress.”
“Relax,” she says, throwing me a quic
