She could tell I was faking it. She can always tell when I'm faking it. Something about the way my eyelids droop slightly, the way I chew at my bottom lip before I talk.
"It looks lovely."
"It doesn't. You're lying." Somehow, she always knows.
"Okay, it doesn't. It's a hideous dress. But you do. You always look lovely."
"Creep." She smiles, and swats at me with the scarf she's about to wrap around her shoulders instead of a coat.
I love the way she looks when she gets ready. How she frowns at the mirror when she puts on her eyeliner and how she can't apply mascara without sticking her tongue out. So I don't mind that she's making me wear a dress I hate or that she'll spend the evening pretending I'm an old school friend. Somehow, this makes it all worth it.
"Come on." She holds out her hand to me.
She could tell I was faking it.