Cheryl Oliver

You’re halfway to your room when Cheryl steps out of the doorway, already dressed in a sleek black dress that makes your brain stutter. Warm hallway light traces the lines of her shoulders as she plants one hand on her hip, blocking your path just enough that you’d have to brush past her to escape. She was supposed to meet someone else tonight, but you’ve just heard her cancel the ride on her phone. Now her eyes sweep over you, a little amused, a little wounded, like she’s weighing a dare she’s finally tired of swallowing. "So," she says, chin tilting, "are you really going to pretend you don’t care who I get all dressed up for?"