Sleep doesn't come easy. Between listening to Hartley puke her guts up in the bathroom and obsessively mulling over the details of my upcoming date, I'm lucky I closed my eyes at all. And even though she must have been hungover, Hartley still nudges me when her phone alarms a few hours later, expecting to go for a run. Again, I try to dissuade her and again she resists.

After our arduous journey down the longest road in the world, I hop into the shower and when I get out, Hartley has something waiting for me.

"I made breakfast," she announces, handing over a plate.

I stare at it in surprise. "French toast?"

"Not just French toast. Vegan blueberry French toast." She looks smug. "Made from scratch."

I'm impressed. "Made from scratch?"

She smiles. "Not really. But it is made with love."

Her thoughtful gesture touches me. But I only see one plate and wonder if she's still feeling sick. "Aren't you eating?"

"I already did. Had to make sure I wasn't about to poison you."

"Mmmm, what smells so good?" Penny pokes her head into the kitchen, her eyes heavy with sleep.

"I made French toast," Hartley says as she sits down at the table. "Want some?"

Her mother's eyebrows shoot up. "You made breakfast?"

"Is it really so shocking?"

"No—I think it's great." She smiles. I feel like she wants to say more but decides against it. "In that case, I think I'll try to catch Jolie's next class before filming this week's video. Today's topic: Making Sense of Scents," she says, spreading her hands out in front of her as though the title's in lights. "Will you be able to entertain yourselves without me?"

Hartley makes an irritated face. "We'll be fine, Mom."

"Great. I'm gonna change and head out then. Don't forget you have a doctor's appointment this afternoon."

"Like you'd let me forget," she says, rolling her eyes.

Penny gives her a funny look and then disappears around the corner. I take a seat across from Hartley and stab my fork into a thick slice of bread. "This is really good," I tell her in between bites. "When did you learn to cook?"

She shrugs nonchalantly. "I like to watch cooking channels on YouTube."

"I didn't know there was such a thing. I only subscribe to animal videos."

"You can find anything on YouTube if you look hard enough." She watches with interest as I scoop another bite into my mouth. "So, you really like it?"

"I love it." I sink my teeth into a warm berry, enjoying the tang as it squishes across my tongue. "Do you like it?"

Her finger traces the outline of grain on the wood table. "Blueberries are my favorite." She doesn't look up. "What time's your date with Sully?"

Holy crap. Sully! Anxiety twists in my stomach. Again. "Around three-thirty. What time's your doctor's appointment?"

"Two. But Virginia always runs late."

"Who's Virginia?"

"My psychiatrist. She says calling her by her first name promotes trust." She snorts. "I think it's a load of shit but she means well."

I dab a napkin to the corner of my mouth. "Do you think you'll be back in time to help me get ready?"

"I wouldn't count on it." Her eyes finally meet mine. "But I can help before I leave. Where's he taking you?"

My throat closes a little. Oh my God. If I can't even talk about the date, how am I supposed to go through with it?

Her brows slant inward as she stares at me. "Are you alright?" she asks. "I'm fine."

I push the remaining French toast around my plate with a fork, my appetite a distant memory. "He wants to grab a bite to eat—I'm not sure where. Then we're going to walk around before the ghost tour starts."

Hartley's face lights up. "I love the ghost tours! But you look sort of pale. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," I squeak.

"You're not nervous are you?" Her shoulders slump as she studies me. "Everything's gonna be okay. You know that, right?"

"I know. I'm just—scared to death."

"Gwen! Sully's a great guy. You don't have to be scared. If he knew you were, he'd feel awful."

Guilt spears through my chest. She's right. Sully seems like the kind of guy who would care if I were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Which I am. "I know, but this is my first real date. Weren't you scared when you went out with Nick for the first time?"

"Honestly, I don't remember."

Knowing her, she probably wasn't. Nothing ever shatters her confidence. "And speaking of Nick," I begin, "Since you're obviously back together, is he going to let you off the hook for the windshield?"

Her face abruptly falls. "Not exactly, but I knew he wouldn't. I have to pay the deductible. Two hundred and fifty bucks!" she exclaims. "Selling my clothes won't be enough. Where am I gonna get that kind of cash?"

I wrack my brain, searching for a solution. "Sully has a job. Maybe he'll give you a loan?"

She shakes her head. "No way. I don't borrow money from friends. Don't you watch Judge Judy?"

"It was just a thought. I'm sure we'll figure something out."

A few minutes later, Penny leaves for yoga and Hartley hops into the shower. And as soon as she does, my cell chirps from the back pocket of my shorts.

Dad.

Well, it's about damn time. But now that he's remembered me, I'm not sure I can stomach talking to him. My fingers fiddle with the pearl pendant around my neck. No matter how mad I am at him, I can't ignore the call. Especially since he'll expect a call back.

I take a deep breath, but there's not enough air in the whole world to clear away my unease. "Hello?"

"Sweet Pea!" his voice booms from the other end. "How's New Orleans?"

"Hot." My voice is forced, even in my own ears. I'm sure he's too preoccupied to notice.

"Wonderful! I would have called sooner, but I've been so busy. I've been helping Tiffanie look for a new car." Of course he has. "She says hello, by the way."

"Hi back." My jaw clenches. Greeting his blonde bimbo secretary with anything other than an I hate you feels like I'm twisting the knife in Mom's back.

"I'll tell her you said so." He sounds pleased. I want to slam down the phone, but don't because I'm a giant wimp. "Have you spoken to your mother yet?"

Is he serious right now? "Several times. I've been here for over a week," I remind him through gritted teeth. "She called as soon as I got off the plane." It's a lie, but I don't care.

"That's your mother for you—two steps ahead of the game. I've always admired that about her."

Oh, yeah? Then why'd you leave?

"Listen, Sweet Pea, I have to go. Tiffanie and I have a golf lesson in forty-five minutes."

Fine. Whatever. And not a moment too soon. Hartley's thumping around upstairs which means she's out of the shower, and I really don't want to get into a conversation about my stupid dad.

"I'll call again," he goes on. "You take care of yourself and know that I love you."

"Okay. Bye, Dad."

I don't even feel guilty for not saying I love you back.

Later in the afternoon, I stare at myself in Hartley's full-length mirror, carefully inspecting the sundress I've decided to wear. It's one of the nicer ones I brought with me, but for some reason it feels like too much for an afternoon date. And at the same time, not enough. How is that even possible?

"Are you sure it looks okay?" I ask for the hundredth time. I twist this way and that, trying to get a close look at every possible angle.

"It's great. Fantastic. You'll be the belle of the ball." Hartley's sarcastic tone leaks from underneath the pillow that's smashed over her face. "We've been staring at you for over an hour. Can we please be done now?"

I swivel in the mirror one more time. "I want everything to be perfect," I tell her. "I want to look beautiful."

She sits straight up and tosses the pillow to the side. "You're always beautiful! Why can't you get that through your thick skull?"

I turn to face her. "Not as beautiful as you." She rolls her eyes as I sink into the spot next to her. I compare our reflections in the mirror. "You're perfect and I'm blah."

Her hair is bouncy and blonde and mine's straight and dark brown. Her eyes are as blue as the summer sky; mine are a dull gray. And her cheeks are lean and sculpted while mine look like I'm storing nuts.

"You're not blah," she insists. "You've never been blah."

I shrug and look away.

"Gwen, how many times have I told you? It's all a state of mind. If you think you're ugly, you are. And if you think you're beautiful, you are." She prods a finger into my temple. "The only thing you need to work on is what's going on up here."

I'm about to tell her she's lost it when Penny's voice calls from downstairs. "Hartley, are you ready? I don't want to be late."

My friend cringes. "Sorry, I have to go. I wish I could be here when Sully picks you up."

I swallow hard. "So do I. Are you sure you can't reschedule?"

"There's no way." She shakes her head. "If I don't see my therapist at least once a week, she has a fit. I swear, that woman could survive solely on the amount of help I need." We stand up from the bed and she throws her arms around my neck. "Have fun. And don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I hug her back. "And what is it that you wouldn't do, exactly?"

She steps back and smirks. "Okay, bad example. Just ... be good. And I want every last detail the second you get home."

When Hartley closes the door behind her, I go back to staring at my reflection.

I've come to a conclusion. The hair; the dress—it's definitely not enough. There has to be something more I can do to spruce up my appearance. But with Hartley out of the picture, I won't be able to figure it out on my own. And then it dawns on me.

I know just the person who can.