The first evening was a mixer in the main lodge, and I stood before the small mirror in my cabin, debating my choices with an intensity that would have made Apple proud.
I had brought options—not many, because I was supposedly here for academic purposes, but enough. There was the safe route: dark hiking pants, practical, comfortable, the kind of thing a serious graduate student would wear to a casual networking event in the woods. Then there was the bolder route: a simple but fitted sweater in deep burgundy that Apple had practically forced into my suitcase with the words "wear this if you want him to choke on his own regret" ringing in my ears.
In the end, I compromised.
I pulled on the dark hiking pants—they fit well, hugged my hips in a way that was incidental rather than intentional—and paired them with a cream-colored fitted sweater that somehow managed to be both modest and devastating. The wool was soft, expensive-looking without being flashy, and it brought out the warmth in my skin. I left my hair down, dark waves tumbling over my shoulders, because pulling it back into my usual severe knot felt too much like armour, and tonight I needed to be approachable. Just approachable enough.
I added a simple silver necklace—a small star charm that Apple had gifted me that is a sign of our friendship. It was subtle, almost invisible, but it grounded me. Reminded me why I was here.
I sat down at the small vanity and considered my reflection. Normally, I couldn't be bothered with more than the basics—a swipe of mascara if I was feeling fancy, maybe some tinted lip balm if my lips were dry. But tonight felt different. Tonight felt like the opening move in a game I couldn't afford to lose.
I reached for the small makeup bag Apple had shoved into my suitcase at the last minute, accompanied by her parting words: "If you're going to make him regret running, you need to look like a regret he'll carry for the rest of his life. Use the good stuff."
Inside, I found a delicate blush in a soft rose shade—not the clownish pink Apple favoured, but something subtle, natural. I dusted it lightly across my cheekbones, just enough to give my skin a warm, healthy glow. A touch on my nose, the apples of my cheeks, the way I'd seen makeup tutorials do it in those rare moments when I bothered to pay attention.
Next, the lipstick. Apple had included three options, with helpful sticky notes attached: "BRIGHT RED—wear if you want him to choke" (too aggressive), "NUDE—wear if you're playing hard to get" (maybe), and "THIS ONE—trust me." The chosen one was a soft, rosy shade that matched the blush—barely there, but somehow made my lips look fuller, softer, like I'd just been kissed.
I smudged it on with my finger the way I'd learned from watching Apple get ready for dates, blotting gently on a tissue until it looked natural. Effortless. Like I hadn't tried at all.
One last look in the mirror. The woman staring back at me was composed, quietly confident, with just enough warmth in her cheeks and lips to suggest something softer beneath the surface. She looked like someone who belonged in a room of intellectuals. She also looked, like someone who might make a certain CEO choke on his own regret.
I grabbed my phone and snapped a quick mirror selfie, sending it to Apple with the caption: Approved?
Her response was instantaneous.
Apple: HOLY MOTHER OF—G. That sweater. Those pants. The HAIR. If he doesn't trip over his own tongue the moment he sees you, he's not just emotionally constipated, he's legally blind. You look like a snack. A mysterious, gloomy, bookish snack that could bore any living creature to sleep but also somehow make them desperate to stay awake. I don't understand the contradiction but I SUPPORT IT. Now go. Make him regret. LOVE YOU.
I smiled, slipped the phone into my pocket, and headed for the main lodge.
I carried myself with the unshakeable poise of the woman who had diverted rivers of lava. I made polite conversation, discussing ecological ethics with a biologist and the migration patterns of birds with an ornithologist. But my entire awareness was focused on the door.