Invisible To Her Bully (Jessa and Noah) novel Chapter 240

Chapter 240

Jessa

Retail therapy was one of those phrases that sounded way cuter in theory than it felt in practice.

In theory, it was girls laughing in a montage, swinging shopping bags, sipping something with whipped cream, walking out of stores like we belonged in a magazine.

In reality?

It was fluorescent lighting, unforgiving mirrors, and the kind of dressing rooms that made you question every life choice you’d ever made.

Still… here I was.

Because Mariah needed this.

And if she needed distraction, then I could be brave for an afternoon.

Even if shopping was basically my personal version of psychological warfare.

Mariah marched through the mall like she owned it, her ponytail swinging, her energy a little too sharp in that way that told me she was trying not to think.

“Okay,” she announced, clapping her hands once. “We are not going home yet.”

I groaned dramatically. “Mariah. I already came. That should count as friendship points.”

“It counts as friendship points,” she agreed, completely unbothered. “But it does not count as distraction points. We need distraction points. Preferably in the form of overpriced sweaters and a sense of control.”

I snorted, but my chest felt warm anyway.

She was doing what she always did–dragging people forward even when she was the one struggling.

We wandered into a store filled with soft winter clothes, everything in neutral tones and fake pine–scented air.

Sweaters,

Thank God for sweaters.

Winter was the only season that didn’t feel like it was constantly asking me to perform.

Spring and summer clothes were all thin straps and clingy fabric and the expectation that you should look like you stepped out

of a swimsuit ad.

Winter was different.

Winter was layers.

Winter was softness.

Winter was… hiding, if I was being honest.

I’d been getting more confident. I really had.

But shopping still hit that sore spot in me like a bruise you forgot existed until someone pressed on it.

Mariah held up a chunky knit sweater the color of cinnamon.

“Ooh. This would look good on you.”

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I stared at it suspiciously. “That looks like something a rich mom wears while holding a latte and judging people at Whole Foods.”

Mariah gasped. “Exactly. It’s power. Put it on.”

I laughed despite myself. “I don’t know if I can emotionally handle becoming a Whole Foods mom today.”

“You can,” she said firmly. “And you will.”

We moved deeper into the store, her fingers flicking through hangers.

I hesitated near a rack of fitted tops, my stomach tightening automatically.

Trying on clothes wasn’t just trying on clothes.

It was trying on the version of yourself you were afraid the world would confirm.

The homecoming dress flashback hit me out of nowhere–standing in front of those mirrors, fabric pulling wrong, nothing made for bodies like mine.

Even when it technically fit, it never felt like it was meant for me.

Mariah must’ve noticed my pause, because her voice softened.

“Hey.”

I looked at her.

“We survived dress shopping,” she said quietly. “This is sweaters. This is easy mode.”

I let out a breath. “Easy mode for you. You could wear a trash bag and still look like a model.”

Mariah rolled her eyes. “Please. Do you know what it’s like being tall?”

I blinked.

She leaned closer like she was about to confess something deeply traumatic.

“Normal skirts,” she whispered, “are not normal skirts on me.

I laughed. “Oh my God.”

“}

“I’m serious,” she insisted. “I’ll put on something that’s supposed to be classy and knee–length, and suddenly it’s like… hello, welcome to my accidental mini skirt era.”

I snorted. “That’s tragic.”

“It is tragic,” she agreed solemnly. “The fashion industry has never met a real woman in its life.”

“Or if it has,” I said, “it immediately pretended not to see her.”

Mariah pointed at me like I’d said something profound.

“Exactly. Clothes are designed for mannequins. Not humans. Not hips. Not boobs. Not height. Just… straight lines.”

I nodded slowly. “I hate it.”

She held up a sweater again, this one soft red.

“And that is why,” she said, “we buy sweaters. Because sweaters don’t judge.”

I took it from her, fingers brushing the fabric.

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“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll try it.”

Mariah grinned like she’d won a war.

While I disappeared into the dressing room, she lingered outside, scrolling her phone.

The sweater was warm when I pulled it on.

Soft.

Comfortable.

And when I looked in the mirror…

I didn’t hate it.

That was a small victory.

I stepped out.

Mariah’s eyes widened.

“Jess.”

“What?” I asked nervously.

She pointed at me dramatically.

“That sweater was made for you. You look like the main character in a Christmas movie.”

I huffed. “Do I look like I’m about to bake cookies and fall in love with a small–town carpenter?”

“Yes,” she said immediately. “And Noah Carter would absolutely be the carpenter.”

I shoved her shoulder, laughing.

“Stop.”

“I’m just saying,” she teased. “Sweater weather is doing things for you.”

I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks warmed.

It felt… good.

Normal.

Like maybe my body wasn’t always a problem to solve.

Maybe it was just mine.

We kept wandering, arms slowly filling with clothes we didn’t need but wanted anyway.

Mariah even tried on a skirt and came out glaring.

“I told you,” she said flatly. “Mini skirt.”

I nearly choked laughing.

“Mariah, that is not a mini skirt. That is a belt.”

“It was marketed as midi!” she cried.

“MIDI FOR WHO? A GNOME?”

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She laughed so hard she had to grab the doorframe.

For a few minutes, it was just us.

No gossip.

No Ridgeville drama.

No I*******m posts.

Just two girls making fun of the fashion industry like it personally offended us.

Then Mariah’s phone rang.

Her whole body went still.

I saw the name on the screen.

Jackson.

Mariah’s expression shifted immediately into that mix of affection and dread.

“Oh God,” she muttered. “What happened now?”

My stomach tightened.

She answered quickly. “Hey.”

I couldn’t hear Jackson, obviously, but I could hear enough in the pauses.

Mariah’s face went from casual…

To focused.

To something like disbelief.

“What?” she said sharply. “Coach?”

My heart skipped.

She turned slightly away, lowering her voice.

I watched her eyebrows knit together.

Then her eyes widened.

“Oh my God.”

I stepped closer. “Mariah?”

She held up a finger at me.

I froze.

Her voice softened. “Okay… okay. Yeah. I get it.”

Another pause.

Then: “Are you serious?”

Her gaze flicked up to the ceiling like she was trying not to spiral right there between clearance sweaters.

Finally, she exhaled.

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“Okay. Tell me what happens. I’ll… I’ll talk to you later.”

She hung up.

For a second, she just stared at her phone.

I grabbed her arm gently.

“Mariah,” I said, “what is it? What happened?”

Her eyes lifted to mine, and for once, her usual sharpness wasn’t there.

Just vulnerability.

“Coach got involved,” she said quietly.

My stomach dropped.

“With the I**

*m thing?”

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She nodded.

“Jackson told him,” she continued, voice tight. “And Coach… he’s taking it seriously. Like administration–level seriously.”

I blinked. “That’s… good, right?”

Mariah’s laugh was humorless.

“It should be good,” she said. “It should feel like someone finally stepping in.”

She swallowed hard.