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I could tell the night we were bowling that Ian wanted me too. His small touches, his not-so-subtle teaching me how tobowl—it was just like Stephen in that Starbucks. And a week later, when Ian came over and let me do the makeup on him, I saw in his eyes the same look I saw in that basement when I was thirteen, withNational Treasureon in the background.
I’d expected Ian and I would kiss again. I’d hoped we would. The only reason I didn’t jump his bones the night we ran lines at my apartment was because he was covered in makeup. What I didn’t expect was for Ian to make the first move, and I definitely didn’t expect what he’d just done in the stairwell of the theater.
The taste of him haunts me every step back to my apartment. My car still won’t start, so I’m walking again, and I’m sure I meant to ask Ian for a ride back—but after a kiss like that, I can barely remember my name.
By the time I get back to my apartment, the reality of what just happened has sunk in, and although I go through the motions of changing clothes and touching up my makeup, I replay on a loop in my head the moment he grabbed my wrist, pinned me against the wall, and kissed me like it was the last chance he’d ever get.
I wish Jessie were here for me to process all this with her, but she’s at the library, probably, and this isn’t something I want to talk about in a text. Plus, I need to get to the party.
The party where Ian is waiting for me.
He told me he was going to go right after rehearsal, and I told him if there were too many people there for his taste to just wait outside for me and I’d go in with him. The thought of it has my stomach in an absolute riot. Which is ridiculous, because while that kiss was enough to make my legs weak, it’s not like I have feelings for the green bean.
I don’t do feelings.
I have long lived by the motto that under no circumstances should I catch a wedding bouquet, an STI, or feelings.
On my way out, I take a shot of bourbon and hope it will keep me warm on the walk up to The Row. It’s fall, but it’s chilly enough that I almost regret my miniskirt.
About seven people scream my name when I walk in the door of the frat house. They all run up to me, sloshing beer, throwing their sticky arms around me for hugs. There are compliments thrown out for my outfit, my makeup, my shoes, my hair. As usual, I’m the best dressed. And as usual, I’m the most dressed up. Most girls are wearing jeans and a nice top—there’s practically a sea of cardigans in this house. I stick out like a rose in a junkyard.
I love it. I love being the best and most dressed up in every room I walk into. Who can touch me when I look this fucking good? Words burn up as they enter my atmosphere. Glares wither and die before they can touch me.
I remember the first day I went to school in a full face of makeup and an outfit my mother never would have approved of. But she was on a low from a recent breakup, so I knew I could get away with it. That new body I grew by seventh grade made me feel vulnerable in a way I couldn’t really control. So I found what I could control: what I wore.
My clothes and my makeup became my armor, and the first day I donned them, the stares at school were a little different. I was untouchable; the balance of power had swayed in my direction. After that, I started practicing makeup techniques in the evenings and on weekends. It became my superpower. At sleepovers, all the girls wanted makeovers from me. In high school, my first paid gig came from doing makeup for the girls in the school beauty pageant.
Even now, if I’m feeling the creeping tendrils of self-doubt, I put on a face of makeup, and it brings me the kind of confidence I don’t have to fake.
As much as I enjoy the enthusiastic greeting, I’ve got my eyes out for one person, and one person only.
He wasn’t waiting for me outside, so either he bailed or he’s somewhere inside. After the way he kissed me, I’m not surprised he was feeling confident enough to navigate a party. That kind of confidence could get him elected as president.
I walk through the party, searching the crowd. Two people are fighting, but I’m pretty sure it’s just a script they’re rehearsing. Multiple people are singing not too far away—something fromRent, I think. It’s not a party full of theater kids if someone isn’t singing.
Ian’s not in the living room or the study, so I make my way to the kitchen, because I need a drink.
“Jade!” a British accent calls from somewhere behind me.
Oh god.
I spin around, plastering a smile on my face. I didn’t expect Anastasia to be at the party. She called the rehearsal—I assumed she didn’t want to come. But here she is, dressed in a short floral dress with long, loose sleeves, clutching a red Solo cup and drinking out of a straw that already has a lipstick stain on it.
“Anastasia!” I match her energy, taking my voice up an octave with all the fake enthusiasm I can muster.
“Is Ian here with you?” she asks, looking around me.
“I assume so,” I say. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
She’s still looking for him. I narrow my eyes at her.What is she doing?She gives me her attention again, but her eyes dart away every so often, scanning the room.
I seriously need a drink.
“Come on.” I nod my head toward the kitchen, and she follows me. I pour an inch of bourbon into a cup, fill the rest with Diet Coke, and sip at it as I lean against the counter, trying to get a read on Anastasia. She’s acting weird, searching the room like she’s some kind of spy.
“So our chemistry was good, huh?” I nudge.
“Oh, yeah, it’s better for sure. Whatever you’re doing is working. That stage kiss was . . .” She trails off, raising her eyebrows at me.
