Page 106 of Boardroom Mask

He laughs. “I’m taking you out. A real date. Not your kitchen floor, not an alley, not a—” He glances back at the confessional. “Not that.”

“You’re asking me on a date?” I say, still confused.

Kir nods. “Corner of W 28th and 10th Ave. I’ll be there at eight.”

“And if I don’t show up?”

He doesn’t even begin to consider the question. “You will.”

I want to argue, but he’s probably right. “What should I wear?”

“Something that makes you feel dangerous.” He steps closer, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I want every man we cross paths with to wonder what they did wrong in a past life to not have a woman like you on their arm.”

Then he pushes through the heavy doors and disappears into the morning.

42

JILLIAN

“Me and the Devil / Walking side by side / And I’m gonna see my man / Until I get satisfied”

— “Me and the Devil” by Soap&Skin

Five days is a long time to argue with yourself and lose.

When I woke up on Sunday after the cathedral sacrilege, I was sure I wasn’t going.

Monday, I changed my mind.

Tuesday, yes.

Wednesday morning, no.

But now that it’s Wednesday night and I’ve flip-flopped enough times and with enough violence to concern every chiropractor in the five boroughs, I’ve finally decided to concede what should’ve been obvious from the start:

I’m going on the date.

But first, I have to decide what to wear. Which is how I find myself standing in front of my closet in a towel, dripping on the hardwood, staring at my options and gnawing at my lip.

I pull out a black dress first. I bought it for a work event in my first year at The Times and haven’t worn it since. It’s nice, though—fitted, knee-length, with a high neckline in front but open in the back almost to the waist. Rae called it my “secret weapon dress” because it looks conservative from the front and then you turn around and it’s a whole different situation. I hold it up against my body and look in the mirror.

It occurs to me that I have never dressed up for Kir. He’s seen me in flannel pajamas and inside-out blouses, in jeans I pulled on in the dark. He’s seen me in nothing at all. But he’s never seen metry. The idea of trying—of wanting to look good forhim, specifically, on purpose—makes me extremely nervous.

I wish I could call Rae. I’ve picked up the phone a billion times today to text her about this, and every time, I’ve put it back down. Because calling Rae means explaining the situation, and explaining the situation means telling my best friend that I’ve been sleeping with the son of the man who bought her at a charity auction for five million dollars and is currently in the process of consuming her whole. That conversation will not go well for either of us. Besides, she’s got enough going on.

So Rae stays in the dark, and I stay in my towel.

I survey my other options, but I keep coming back to the first over and over again. Eventually, the black dress wins.

I drop the towel and pull on underwear first. Black lace, not red, just to keep Kir on his toes. I step into the dress and zip up the side, then turn to check the back in the mirror. The open panelshows the knobs of my spine, the two dimples at the base of my back, and, worst of all, a fading bite mark just below my left shoulder blade that I forgot was still there. I touch it with my fingertips. It doesn’t hurt anymore. It just exists, a little souvenir from the man in the mask.

I sit at the vanity and start on my face. Foundation first, then concealer under my eyes to keep these bags out of the public view, because ain’tnobodyneeds that. Blush, just enough to look alive. For eyeliner, I go heavier than usual, a thick wing that makes my green eyes sharper. Mascara next. Lipstick: a deep berry that Jillian-from-five-years-ago used to wear every single day and Jillian-from-now hasn’t touched in ages.

I uncap it and apply it slowly, watching the color transform my mouth into a wicked slash of crimson.

Something that makes you feel dangerous.That was the assignment.

I’d say this look meets the criteria.