Page 8 of Kiss Slay Replay

“Exceptional acoustics in this place,” I say, at a normal volume.

A moment of silence.

“I didn’t say anything I wouldn’t say to your face,” Evan says.

“Me, either,” Cassie says.

“Yeah, thank you. Thanks for that. I’m about to get in the shower so you have an approximately fifteen-to-twenty-minute window to continue your discussion of my shit show of a life.”

“Good to know!” Evan says.

“He’s kidding,” Cassie says.

“No, he’s not,” I mumble. I take off my shirt, unhook my bra behind my back, step out of my underwear. Leave the dirty laundry in a pile on the floor.

I turn the shower on, dial it to the left as far as it will go. The room fills with steam, and I disappear inside it. The water trickles over me, the pressure too light. I don’t know if I appreciate this softness or if I resent it. If I want to be held or to be beaten. If I want the universe to reach out and pet my hair, or to grab me by it and drag me through the streets. If I want forgiveness and relief or pain and punishment.

I press my head into the tile. I turn the water cold.

—

Cassie knocks on my door but doesn’t wait for permission to enter.

“Look at you,” she says. “Stunner.”

“Is it too obvious how hard I’m trying to look good? Is anything about this”—I gesture to myself—“desperate? Like, without knowing me, would you look at me and think I’m—”

“I get it.” She cocks her head, thinking it over.

“Fuck,” I say, turning back to the mirror.

“Willa. Relax. I’m mulling.”

“Exactly. If it requires that long of a mull—”

“Did you want an honest answer, or did you want bullshit? Because my honest, mulled answer is that you look casually stunning. Not at all like you’ve been in here for hours torturing yourself, letting your anxiety spread through the cabin like carbon monoxide.”

“Phew. What are you wearing?” I ask her. She’s still in her day clothes.

“A wedding dress. Do you think Steph will be mad?”

I snort.

She tosses her makeup bag onto my bed and flops down beside it.

“Babe?” Luke from the other room.

Cassie looks at me and presses a finger to her lips, shakes her head. I tiptoe over to the door and close it.

“He’s driving me fucking crazy,” she whispers. “Oh, actually. Luke? Luke!”

He opens the door. “Yo!”

“Do you have the—”

He hands her a canned cocktail, then takes another out of his pocket. “Willa, you want one?”

“I’m good,” I say, then immediately change my mind. I need anesthetic. “Who am I kidding? Good? Me? I do want one. Need one. Yes. Please.”