“You’re not going to break your ankle,” Mom says, her voice somewhere between comforting and condescending. “You fall, you get back up. Or you let Kieran help you get back up. Trust me, once he sees you in this dress, that boy’s going to do whatever you want.” I cock an eyebrow after her last statement, and she quickly adds, “Whatever you want, of course, that doesn’t involve drugs, booze, or any kind of behavior that might make me grandmother at forty.”
