Her hands are smooth and pale in mine, her thumb moving in a slow circle against my wrist.

“Don’t worry.” It’s a feeble attempt to calm my nerves, and I appreciate it, but the butterflies fluttering against the insides of my stomach won’t still themselves.

“Are you sure? I mean, we don’t really have to go, do we?” I’m not used to feeling like this. I’m fearless, ex-jungle woman, who climbs trees and doesn’t care to worry about where she falls, because she’s confident that wherever it is, it’ll be on her feet. But this, somehow, is very different.

Claire grabs my pointed chin between her fingers and forces our eyes to meet. “Kate, look at me.” I do, and there’s something in the blue of her pupils and her determined expression that makes me feel a little better already. “You will be fine.” Her words are full of conviction, of the sureness that I wish once again occupied myself. My lips meet hers, the shiny gloss that tastes like cotton candy sliding between us as I try to capture some of that courage back. When I pull away, her smile is catching. “Really, it’s no big deal, my aunt won’t bite.”

I roll my eyes in spite of myself, and attempt to giggle it away with her, but it’s back to not working anymore. My hand leaves her waist, the bed sheets shuffling as I stand and move toward the set of drawers.

Claire clears her throat in back of me and I half-turn, raising an eyebrow.

“I actually, um, took it upon myself to pick you up something to wear.” That eyebrow disappears higher into my hairline and she rushes to explain, “Since, I, uh, figured you hadn’t had time to go shopping for something nice since the island.”

There’s a subliminal message there, one that whispered I knew you wouldn’t, and, You can’t wear ratty old jeans and a t-shirt to meet my only living relative. Because Claire knows a lot of things about me, or at least enough to realize that I get a little lost looking at formal wear and that heels make me more than a bit nervous.

She bites her lip, though, as if she fears I might get angry with her for the thought. But it only serves to make her cuter, and even though in the back of my mind I’m sure that was her exact intention, I try not to care.

I skulk around the corner apprehensively.

“How did you even know my size?”

Claire chuckles, “I think I’ve spent enough time around those curves to be able to eyeball it.”

My laughter isn’t soon to follow because at that moment I finally fold open the closet door, and I whimper a little at the sight.

“You have got to be kidding me.” I whisper, but loud enough for her to hear. Whipping around the corner, I notice she’s wincing, but I hold up the dress with a disapproving flourish and frown. “I don’t do pink.” There is finality there, no room for argument.

She reaches out and fingers to hem of the silky dress, the carnation pink gleam reflected in her sad, hopeful smile. “But it’s so pretty.”

My frown deepens. “I don’t do pink.”

Straightening and standing, as if preparing for a battle she knows she’ll win if she plays her cards right, she maneuvers behind me, placing two hands on my hips and leaning closer.

Her breath and her words tickle my neck as she pleads. “Please? It’ll look so pretty on you. And my aunt will love it.”

My expression is disbelieving now. “Oh is that right?”

She nods, her nose brushing against the nape of my neck, teasing. “Especially if you wear the matching shoes.”

I jerk away at that. “Shoes? I don’t think so.”

But her grip tightens and her lips finally find my skin, a giggle escaping her because it’s silently common knowledge that she’s made her case.

“But they match.” She protests, the distinct impression of a smile left in her tone like foot prints in the sand.

I groan, but give it up for a laugh because this is what she wants and somehow that made the protests melt, and it makes a little me feel funny inside. I’m not sure whether it’s funny ha-ha or funny interesting, but it could be a liquid-y combination of both.

“Well. If they match.”

And she’s laughing now too, because it’s easier than we’d both thought.

“Seriously though.” She hiccups, “There’s no pressure.”

The faint touches of a smirk press at the corners of my lips, before I turn in her arms and assure her.

“Don’t lie.” She opens her mouth to protest, but I continue without her. “I know and it’s fine.”

When she kisses me, pink stops seeming so bad, because it’s the color of her lipstick and the blush on her cheeks when we show up ten minutes late.