A Plan in Pink

Stacy had expected to be nervous.

She'd spent an unreasonable amount of time upstairs preparing herself for this moment, after all. She'd chosen the dress, done her makeup, arranged her hair into twin pigtails, and practised looking confident in the mirror until she'd almost convinced herself that she knew what she was doing.

Almost.

Nothing had prepared her for standing in front of Evan and waiting for him to decide whether he found her attractive.

"Wow," he'd said.

Just wow.

Then, after a painfully long pause, he'd added, "You look different."

Stacy wanted to scream.

Different. Wonderful. Fantastic. A glowing review from a man who apparently needed several seconds to recover from the sight of her in a minidress. She couldn't tell whether he liked what he saw, whether he was horrified by it, or whether he was simply trying to work out how to respond without insulting her.

The uncertainty was awful.

She'd been married. She'd been desired. She'd known what it was like to have a man look at her with genuine interest, and she'd never imagined she'd find herself worrying over the opinion of Evan of all people. Yet here she was, dressed like a pink confection, trying to persuade herself that this wasn't the most ridiculous plan she'd ever conceived.

Unfortunately, the stakes were rather higher than her pride. If Evan rejected her outright, she had no idea what the magic would do next. Another rewrite, perhaps. Another role. Another set of expectations she would be forced to accommodate, whether she wanted to or not. She'd already learned that resisting the magic tended to make things worse, and she couldn't keep living in a state of constant opposition to whatever it decided her life should be.

They needed to find a way through this.

Together.

Not because the magic said so, and not because she was prepared to let it dictate how she felt. Stacy wanted to believe that if she and Evan could willingly work through their circumstances, they might find some way to take control of what happened next. They could stop being enemies long enough to understand each other. They could find a way to live with what had happened and perhaps even reclaim a little of their lives.

That was the plan, anyway.

The plan would work a lot better if Evan could manage something more encouraging than "You look different."

"Well, yes," Stacy replied, forcing a small smile. "That's sort of the idea."

His expression suggested that he wasn't sure whether she was joking. Before either of them could make the situation any more awkward, Evan gestured towards the counter. "I made coffee, by the way. There's plenty. I figured you might want some."

The offer was so ordinary that Stacy almost didn't know what to do with it. Coffee. A simple, thoughtful gesture. Something a person might do for another person without being compelled by magic, without fulfilling a role, without trying to make someone happy because the universe had decided that was their purpose.

"Thank you," she said, and meant it.

Stacy crossed the kitchen towards the coffee machine, making a conscious effort not to look as though she was thinking about every step. The heels made a satisfying little click against the floor. The dress fit well, and she knew she looked good in it. Surely Evan could see that. Surely there was some part of him that appreciated the effort she'd made.

She let her hips move naturally, then wondered whether she was overdoing it. Trying to walk seductively would be embarrassing enough if she were any good at it. Trying to walk seductively while second-guessing every movement was probably worse.

Just get the coffee, she told herself.

The machine was straightforward enough. Stacy found a mug, poured herself a cup, added a little milk, and stirred it while attempting to look as though she did this every morning in a pink minidress and platform heels.

There. Perfectly normal.

Turning back towards the table, she took a step forward.

Then stopped.

Something was wrong.

The table was where it ought to be. Evan was sitting at it, his coffee mug in front of him, looking up at her with an expression that was difficult to read. But the wooden objects arranged around the table made no sense.

Stacy stared at them. They were separate pieces of furniture, apparently. They had flat surfaces at the top, and had wooden structures underneath and in the back. They were positioned at regular intervals around the table, as if somebody had deliberately arranged them for a purpose.

What purpose?

Her mind searched for an answer and found nothing. She looked from one object to another, trying to make the pieces fit together into something familiar. The shapes seemed simple enough. There was no reason she shouldn't understand what she was looking at. Yet the longer she stared, the less sense they made.

What were they?

How did they work?

Why were they there?

A cold, uncomfortable feeling spread through her stomach. Stacy knew this sensation. Or rather, she recognized what it meant. Another piece of ordinary life had become unfamiliar, another little gap had opened between the person she remembered being and the person the magic apparently expected her to become. She knew what a table was. She knew what coffee was. She knew how to get dressed and how to walk into a kitchen.

But the wooden things around the table?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Evan was still watching her. Stacy could practically hear the questions forming in his mind. Why was she standing there? What was she doing? Had she changed her mind about sitting down? Was she trying to make some sort of statement?

She couldn't explain what was happening without sounding ridiculous, and she certainly wasn't going to stand in the middle of the kitchen and admit that she couldn't figure out how to use a piece of furniture. The whole point of this morning was to make a better impression on Evan, not give him another reason to worry about her, or worse, to think she was standoffish.

Her gaze returned to him.

He was sitting quite comfortably, looking like he had absolutely no difficulty understanding how the world worked. The contrast was irritating. He had a perfectly good place to sit, and she had a perfectly good reason to join him.

More importantly, he had a lap.

The solution arrived with such startling clarity that Stacy almost laughed. Of course. Why bother with the strange wooden objects when she could sit with Evan instead? It was an unconventional choice, perhaps, but the entire morning had been unconventional. Besides, if she was trying to establish a little warmth between them, this was certainly one way to do it.

Stacy crossed the remaining distance and settled onto his lap, taking care not to spill her coffee.

Evan went rigid with surprise.

For one alarming second, she wondered whether she'd made a terrible mistake. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened as if he were about to ask what on earth she thought she was doing. Then his hand came to rest on her hip. It was a small gesture, almost automatic. He steadied her as she settled into place, making sure she was balanced rather than leaving her to wobble awkwardly on his knees.

Stacy felt a tiny spark of hope. He hadn't pushed her away. He hadn't told her to get off. His hand remained at her hip, warm and reassuring through the fabric of her dress. Perhaps he was simply being polite. Perhaps he was afraid that rejecting her would upset her. Perhaps he hadn't had time to work out what he wanted to do.

Still, it was something.

And after the morning she'd had, the week she'd had, Stacy was willing to take something.

"Comfortable?" Evan asked cautiously.

"Very," she replied.

The answer came out more confidently than she felt. Stacy shifted just enough to get settled, then took a sip of coffee while trying not to think too hard about the fact that she was sitting on her former stepson's lap in a pink minidress, and how the arousal she had grown used to feeling when seeing him had spiked since she'd settled in.

This was fine.

Everything was fine.

She was absolutely not going to think about nice it felt to have his hand on her hip.

"So," Stacy began, lowering her mug. "We should probably talk."

"Okay."

"I want you to understand something first. I'm still angry."

Evan's expression fell a little, but he nodded. "I figured."

"Good. Because I don't want to pretend otherwise." Stacy looked down into her coffee, watching the surface settle. "You've done things to me that I still can't really process. You've taken away my life as I knew it, and I don't know how much of that I'm ever going to get back. I'm not suddenly going to wake up one morning and decide that none of it matters."

"I know."

"And I'm not promising that I'll forgive you."

"I understand."

The quiet acceptance in his voice made her look at him. Evan wasn't arguing. He wasn't trying to justify himself or remind her that she'd been difficult to live with before the magic came along. He was simply listening, his hand still resting lightly against her hip.

That helped.

A little.

"But I'm working on it," she continued. "I'm trying to find a way for us to get along. A way to stop making everything worse for each other. Because I don't think fighting the magic is going to get us anywhere, and I can't keep living like this."

Evan studied her face. "So what are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that we try to get to know each other. Properly, I mean. Not as people who are stuck in some ridiculous magical arrangement, but as ourselves. We could talk. Spend time together. Try to understand what the other person needs." She hesitated, feeling foolish all over again. "Maybe we could even learn to like each other."

The words hung between them.

Stacy had never imagined she'd say anything like that to Evan. A few months ago, the idea would have been laughable. She'd barely been able to tolerate him, and he hadn't exactly gone out of his way to make her life easier. But the circumstances had changed, and so had the way she looked at him. Not necessarily in a romantic sense, not yet, but she'd begun to see the young man underneath the aggravating behaviour.

He was trying.

She could give him credit for that.

"I'm willing to try," Stacy said. "I just need to know whether you are."

Evan looked down at his coffee for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

"Why are you giving up?"

Stacy blinked.

"What?"

"Your marriage. Your life with Dad. Everything you wanted before this happened." Evan glanced at her. "You're talking like you've decided it's over. Like you're giving up on getting any of it back."

For a moment, Stacy didn't know how to answer. Part of her wanted to protest. To tell him that he had no right to ask her that, that he was the reason she'd lost so much in the first place. Another part wanted to tell him that she hadn't given up on anything, that she was still fighting for herself even if she wasn't fighting the magic directly.

But the question deserved an honest answer.

"I'm not giving up," she said at last. "I'm trying to move forward."

"Without Dad?"

The words stung, although she wasn't sure whether they hurt because of what they implied or because she couldn't confidently say no. Stacy lowered her mug and rested it on the table. For once, she was glad to have something else to concentrate on besides Evan's face.

"I loved your father," she said. "I still care about him. That doesn't just disappear because things have changed."

The memory of her husband surfaced, bringing with it a mixture of affection and sadness. She remembered the man she'd married, the life they'd planned, the sense of security she'd felt when she'd believed she knew what their future would look like.

But that future was becoming harder to hold onto. The man she had married wasn't even quite the man she remembered anymore. The magic had changed the world around them so thoroughly that she no longer knew how much of their old relationship remained. Perhaps he still loved her. Perhaps the person he had become would look at her and see a stranger. She had no way of knowing. And even if she could somehow return to him, would things ever be the same?

"I don't know what my future with your father looks like anymore," Stacy admitted. "I don't even know if the life I remember is something I can get back. I can keep holding onto it, but that doesn't mean it's going to come back for me."

Evan remained silent.

"That's not the same as saying I don't love him," she added. "It just means I have to accept that my life might not go the way I planned." Her fingers tightened around the mug. "And if I spend every day waiting for the magic to give me my old life back, what happens to the life I have now? What happens to me?"

The question had no easy answer. Stacy didn't expect one.

She turned towards Evan, studying him properly for the first time that morning. Beneath the uncertainty and the guilt, there was a young man who'd made a terrible mistake and was finally beginning to understand the consequences. He wasn't the man she'd married, and she wasn't going to pretend he was. But perhaps that didn't mean he had to remain the boy she'd spent years criticizing, either.

"Maybe you could become a man for me," she said.

Evan's eyebrows rose. Stacy felt her cheeks warm, but she forced herself to continue.

"Not overnight. Not because a potion says you have to, and not because I'm expecting you to magically turn into the perfect husband. I'm talking about growing up. Learning what you want. Learning what I need. Becoming someone I can respect and trust." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "I could help you with that, if you're willing to let me. And if you're willing to be that man for me."

Evan looked genuinely startled.

"Stacy, I'm nineteen."

"I know how old you are."

"I'm not exactly..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "I'm not some experienced guy who knows how relationships work."

"Neither of us is exactly working with ideal circumstances here."

Despite herself, Stacy almost smiled. The response had been defensive, but it was also honest. She didn't need him to pretend he had everything figured out. She needed him to be willing to learn, to take responsibility for his actions, and to treat her as a partner rather than a problem he could fix with another reckless decision.

"I'm not asking you to become someone else overnight," she said. "I'm asking you to try. To take this seriously. To stop making decisions for both of us without thinking about what they'll do to me."

Evan's gaze dropped.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I deserve that."

"You do."

The blunt answer seemed to catch him off guard, and a small, reluctant smile tugged at Stacy's mouth.

"But I'm willing to try, Evan. That's what I'm offering. We don't have to like each other today. We don't have to pretend the past never happened. We just have to decide whether we're going to spend the rest of our lives fighting each other, or whether we're going to try to build something better."

She studied his expression, searching for some sign that he understood.

"And I hope you'll give me the same chance."

For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Stacy could feel the warmth of his hand against her hip, a small point of contact that suddenly seemed to carry more significance than it should have. She didn't know whether he was attracted to her. She didn't know whether he could ever see her as anything other than the woman who'd married his father. And she certainly didn't know whether the magic would allow them to make their own choices.

But he was listening.

For now, that was enough.

"I don't know how to do this," Evan admitted.

"Neither do I."

"What if we make things worse?"

Stacy glanced towards the ceiling, as though the answer might be written somewhere upstairs among the pink clothes and unfamiliar objects.

"Then we'll deal with that when it happens. But I'm tired of letting fear make every decision for me."

Evan nodded slowly.

Stacy took another sip of coffee, allowing herself a moment to settle into the strange intimacy of their position. His hand remained on her hip. She was sitting on his lap. The arrangement was unconventional, uncomfortable in some ways, and entirely at odds with the life she'd once imagined for herself. Yet for the first time that morning, she didn't feel as though she was simply reacting to the latest change.

She had made a choice.

It might not work. Evan might not be able to become the man she needed, and she might never find a way to feel anything for him beyond reluctant affection. The magic might have plans that neither of them could anticipate. But Stacy had spent enough time being dragged from one impossible situation to another. If she was going to lose her old life, she wanted some say in what came next.

"All right," Evan said eventually. "I'll try."

Stacy looked at him.

"Really?"

"Really. I can't promise I'll know what I'm doing, but I can try to listen. And I can stop doing stupid things that make your life worse."

"That would be a nice change."

"I deserved that one, too."

This time, Stacy did smile. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't love. It wasn't even a guarantee that they would be able to stand each other by the end of the week.

But it was a start.

And for the first time in since she'd encountered the potion's magic, Stacy felt that a start might be enough.