Page 43 of Kiss Slay Replay

“You want one? Go ask Luke.”

“I’ll wait, thanks,” he says.

“Suit yourself. What time does it start again?”

“Five,” Evan says. “The cocktail welcome reception thing starts at five.”

“I’m going to start getting ready,” I say, tipping my suitcase onto its back and unzipping it. The zipper reminds me of the masked man. His phantom wheezing reverberates in my head, the sound of his strange laughter muffled behind his duct tape zipper mouth.

“You need three hours to get ready?” Cassie asks me, sliding off my bed.

“Approximately.”

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Evan says. They shuffle out, closing the door behind them.

I walk over to the window and pull the burlap curtains closed for privacy before I undress. I hear whispers in the other room.

“She’s stressing me out,” Cassie says. “If she brings up this dream one more time…”

“What’s the issue, exactly?” Evan asks. “She seems fine.”

“I’m worried about her. I’m trying to be patient and understanding and, like, make up for lost time. For not being there when she needed me. I had a baby right when she had a life crisis. But I am drained. I’m desperate to relax this weekend and have it not be all about her.”

“Sounds like you’re making it about you,” Evan says.

She sighs. “Okay, but she’s our friend. Don’t you feel any responsibility? I know she wasn’t happy before, but she doesn’t seem any happier now. What if it wasn’t Ravi? She’s depressed, Ev. And I feel like she’s been looking to me to reassure her, and it’s like, I don’t fucking know. I can’t be her whole support system. I’ve got my hands full.”

“Hey, Evan, can you help me with this?” Wyatt says, interrupting their little hush-hush gossip session.

I press my palms against the door, unsteady, knees weak, blood roaring through my veins. As I suspected, Cassie is losing her patience with me. She’s letting it fester—her frustration, her guilt, her resentment. Why won’t she just come to me with it? Does she think I’m too fragile? Too depressed?

Maybe I am, but it’s painful and scary and sobering to know I’m seen that way.

I see you.

I’m not trying to poison the weekend, to sabotage her good time. I’m just trying to get by.

I step away from the door, the floorboards creaking, my heart beating fast and loud—

louder, louder, louder, louder. I can’t escape the sound. It’s in me. It is me. Anxious and ugly.

I go start the shower, hoping it’ll calm me down. Take off my shoes. My socks. My right foot is slightly swollen, the skin marbling purple. It’s going to be hell to walk in heels.

As long as I don’t have to run.

3

I keep my door locked while I get ready because it makes me feel safer. And because I’m self-conscious, the last thing I need right now is a witness to my paranoia, to invite further speculation about the state of my admittedly questionable mental health. I spend hours meticulously applying makeup, blowing out my hair. I put on my dress. Stare at myself in the mirror. This dress was never covered in blood, only margarita. I exhale. I reassure myself. Today is different. Tonight will be different. It’s a rule—the right dress can change your fate.

My eyes are still so bloodshot. They’ve been like this all day and it’s ruining the look. This is what happens when I don’t sleep well: I wear the evidence on my face. I search through my bag for eye drops.

There’s a knock on my door.

“Hello?” It’s Steph.

I rush over, unlock it, swing it open, and pull her in for a tight hug.

“Oh!” she says. “Oh my gosh, hi!”