11
Peyton
Blaire whistled at me as I stepped out of the back bedroom on Wednesday evening.
I’d rushed back from rehearsal and taken the fastest shower in existence. My hair, which always took nearly an hour to blow-dry, miraculously worked with me, and I managed to get it mostly dry in thirty minutes. I’d grabbed a pair of bootcut jeans and an oversize sweater. A wave of mascara and a dollop of lipstick later, and I had a whole three minutes to spare before Isaac picked me up.
“That’s encouraging,” I said with a laugh.
“Are you going on a date?”
I bit my lip and nodded. “Isaac asked me out.”
Blaire’s eyes widened. “This is so exciting! His first date since his wife died.”
I nearly choked on those words and sank into the seat opposite her. “What?”
“Oh God, did I just ruin it?” She
