Zoey is the last person I need right now. “Nope. I need you, actually. Could you do me a huge favor? If you’re busy, it’s no big deal.”
She gestures to her blonde hair, piled into a messy topknot, then to her face which is devoid of makeup. “Do I look like I’m busy?”
Delilah never goes anywhere without a full face of makeup and totally done hair. She says it’s a by-product of her pageant days, and that we should have seen her back then. This is exactly why I need her.
“I have to go to this dinner tonight. I’m supposed to look a bit more …” I search for the right word. What did Zane say in his text? “Conservative.”
Delilah tilts her head, her button nose wrinkling in a way that could only look cute on her. “Like, in what way?”
I swallow. It’s no big deal. “In all the ways. Hair, makeup, clothes. The works.”
“Why?”
I repeat some version of what Zane said about the old-school VCs and making a good impression.
“I guess that makes sense. Are you giving me free rein?”
Delilah looks way too excited. Like a rabid and very hungry cat. I’m the easy food source in this situation. A bird. Or a chipmunk. Totally about to be devoured. But I need her help. And I trust her.
“With some limits. I think it needs to be tasteful. I don’t want to feel like makeup is clogging my pores or like my eyelashes are too heavy. Nothing glued on that I have to peel off at the end of the night.”
“I can do tasteful,” she swears, holding up her fingers in what I think is some kind of Girl Scout promise. Not that either of us ever joined. She was busy winning pageants and I had my nose in a book or computer.
With a sigh, I resign myself to this fate. It’s for one night. It’s just my looks.
It’s for Zane.
That last one is the hardest to swallow. Because not so deep down, a part of me wonders if this isn’t actually for him. Am I enough for Zane?
“I’m all yours.”
Delilah squeals and claps her hands, bouncing up on her toes. “You won’t regret this.”
The problem is that I already do.
Almost two hours later, it’s done. I’ve been transformed into some alternate version of myself, and it isn’t horrible. At least, it doesn’t look horrible.
“What do you think?” Delilah is standing behind me, holding my shoulders and beaming like a mom sending her baby girl off to the first day of kindergarten.
I stare into the full-length mirror hanging on the back of her door, trying to gather words for a response. I have on a black, knee-length skirt and a black blazer with a light pink shirt underneath. Black heels we pilfered from Sam’s closet. My makeup is understated—natural but whatever she did with the eyeliner and all those brushes really highlights my cheekbones and my eyes. And my hair is in a sleek updo, all the pink safely hidden away, just like Zane asked.
“You did a great job,” I finally say. That’s true. “I look … perfect.”
The twisting, knotting sensation in my stomach continues. I blink back tears, the same ones that threatened the whole time I sat in the chair, reminding myself that I trust Delilah, that she’s just doing what I asked. She won’t hurt me.
“So, why do you look so sad?” Delilah whispers. She wraps her arms around my waist and gives me a hug from behind, not letting go. I consider fighting her but instead place my arms over hers.
“I’m fine.”
She squeezes me tighter. “Are you? I can change the hair, or we can look through my closet again—”
“No. Like I said, it’s perfect.”
“You know that you looked perfect before all this too, right?”
Did I though? And perfect for whom?
“Right. Thank you. I better get to dinner.”
Careful not to meet her eyes in the mirror, I extricate myself from her grip, grabbing the black Kate Spade purse she’s letting me borrow. I’ve already put my phone, keys, and wallet inside. In my rush I smack right into the last person I want to see in the hallway.
“Abs?” Zoey grips me by the arms, looking shocked. “What are you wearing? And where are you going?”
“Just a dinner. Delilah helped me get ready.” I try to shove my way by her, using Delilah’s big bag as a mini battering ram. Unfortunately, Harper is right behind Zoey. We’re crammed into the narrow hallway, and I’m going exactly nowhere.
Harper peers around Zoey’s side. Her reaction is a mixture of shock and confusion. “What happened to you?”
I groan, looking down at my feet. With a last burst of energy, I shake off Zoey’s grip and try to push past again. “I’m going to be late.”
“Harper, a little backup,” Zoey says, and Harper squeezes in next to Zoey. Now they’re a literal lady wall, blocking my passage.
“Not so fast, short stuff.” Zoey looks over my shoulder at Delilah. “You did this?”
“Yeah?” Delilah sounds unsure.
“And you.” Zoey has her fierce gaze locked on me, so much like Zane’s that it makes my stomach sink a little lower. “You asked for this?”
I nod. “It’s for a business dinner. I have to impress investors.”
“Did my idiot brother ask you to do this?”
I nod again, and Zoey mutters something under her breath, the kinds of words I rarely hear spilling from her lips. She, like Zane, is usually the pinnacle of control. Right now, though, she looks like a train car that’s come unhinged and is barreling off the tracks.
She spins me around and shoves me back into Delilah’s room. “We’re fixing this,” she says, while pushing me down into the makeover chair I’ve been keeping warm for the last few hours. “Now. You!” She jabs a finger in Delilah’s direction. “Grab the straightening iron. And there’s a midnight blue dress in Sam’s closet. Get it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You better fix her,” Harper says, shaking her head. “I love you, Abs.”
Her unexpected—and unusual—sentiment warms me. “Thanks, Harpy.” She snorts at my favorite nickname and disappears into her room.
Delilah scurries off, leaving me facing off with Zoey in the mirror. Which is a good thing. I have the distinct feeling that if I looked directly into her eyes, I might vanish in a puff of smoke.
“Zane said I need to look professional,” I protest. “Conservative.”
“Shut up about him. I’ll deal with him later. You’re going to look just fine.”
“I’m going to be late,” I say.
“You’re always late.”
“It’s just clothes. And hair,” I whine.
But this is the wrong thing to say to my best friend, the one who knows why this particular situation matters so much more. Why I avoid makeovers, and the reason the mere idea shakes loose all the insecurities that I usually have tied down tight.
Zoey leans close, her cheek next to mine, our eyes locked in the mirror. “Yes. It is. But it’s more than that, and you know it. You aren’t changing for my brother. Or his investors. You’re going to look great when we’re done with you. But you’re going to look like you. You don’t need to pretend to be someone else just to impress some uptight moneybags. Got it?”
“Okay.”
I must not have sounded convincing, because Zoey grabs my chin and turns me so we’re eyeball to eyeball. “Do. You. Under. Stand?”
Delilah walks in, glances at the two of us, and starts to back away slowly. It’s a solid plan.
“No, you don’t,” Zoey says, pointing at Delilah without breaking eye contact with me. “Get in here so we can fix this.”
Giggling nervously, Delilah says, “Do y’all need to take this outside?”
Zoey pins me with her gaze. “Do you want to take this outside?”
I consider. Like Zane, she’s taller than me by at least six inches. She doesn’t have his muscles though. His muscles, mmm …
I stand. “Yes. Let’s go.”
Zoey throws her arms around me. “There you are. There’s my
girl.”
“Get off me! Cage match in the backyard. Now.”
Laughing, she squeezes me harder. I realize it’s futile. Especially when Delilah hugs me from the back, squishing me between them.
“I feel like a sandwich in a panini press,” I manage to groan. “A little air, please?”
They both laugh, loosening up, but only slightly. Zoey pulls back, studying me.
“What?” I ask.
“How do you feel dressed like this?”
I fidget, tugging at the bottom of the blazer. “Like I’m going to a Halloween party dressed as you. And I don’t want to go. No offense.”
She grins. “None taken. You said you're supposed to be impressing investors. Do you feel impressive?”
“No,” I say in a soft voice. “Sorry, Delilah. You did a great job.”
“Thank you. But you did look weird. Like when people dress up animals in people clothes or like other animals.” She shudders, and since she’s still gripping me, it shakes me too. “I sometimes have nightmares about the bulldog dressed as a bumblebee.”
The two of them manhandle me back down into the chair and Zoey starts undoing my hair.
“Look, Abs. It was thoughtful of you to want to impress my brother by changing your style.”
“I was trying to impress the investors!” I protest.
“Right. It was a good thought. But your big, beautiful brain is going to do that. Your confidence. And you looked totally defeated when you were walking out of here. Not like the warrior princess you are.”
“It’s just clothes. I’m still me underneath,” I say, feeling more exposed than I have in a long time.
“Have you told Zane yet?”
“Not specifically. He knows I was bullied.”
Delilah makes a small sound but doesn’t say anything. I really should sit all my roommates down and tell them everything. I really should just be over it by now. It’s been years.
“Maybe you should,” Zoey says softly.
“I think you're right,” I say. “But not tonight. Okay?”
Zoey nods, finally releasing my hair from the tight updo. She finger-combs it, then leans over to show Delilah something on her phone. “Like this, but a little toned down.”
“Right-o, boss.” Delilah gets to work on my hair. “I sprayed it within an inch of its life, so we’re going to have to do some work.”
“I’m highly flammable right now,” I say, remembering the amount of hairspray Delilah used.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Delilah mutters, grabbing a tube of something that smells like mint and smoothing it on my hair. “Just keep away from open flames.”
I wait for her to laugh, but when she doesn’t, I nod. “Right. No Baked Alaska for me.”
Zoey steps in front of me, leaning back against the dressing table, careful not to spill any of Delilah’s expensive—and extensive—array of powders and creams and brushes.
“What we wear is just that—something superficial, on the outside. A mask, in some cases.” She looks pointedly at me. “Or sometimes a shield.”
I hold up a finger, tilting my head. “Hang on?”
“What?” Zoey looks irritated that I’ve interrupted her monologue.
“I’m just listening for the music that tells me this is the important emotional moment on the after-school special.”
She goes to smack my shoulder, but I block her, feeling the heat of the straightening iron by my ear.
“Hey! Keep it civil, you two. Unless you want to rock a Van Gogh look tonight.”
“Tempting,” I say.
“As I was saying,” Zoey says, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Clothes are superficial. But they can also be an expression of who we are. We shouldn’t use them as a crutch or something to hide behind. But it should be our choice. You looked amazing like this. But you also looked defeated. Zane took away your choice. He took away your agency. He was asking you to use clothes as a mask. And it stripped you of your agency. Your confidence.”
I can’t cry, because I’ll totally mess up the makeup. It definitely wasn’t waterproof. As if realizing this, Delilah sets down the flat iron and begins fanning my eyes with her hands, until the three of us are laughing.
A warmth has been expanding in my chest, like a tiny sun is just rising over the horizon of my heart.
“Zane should never have asked you to change. I don’t care who the investors are.”
“What if I mess it all up?”
“Do either Zane or Jack know as much about the programming and development as you?”
“No.”
“Are you going to walk into that restaurant like you know more than everyone else in the room?”
“Yes!”
“Exactly. And you’re also going to show my fool of a twin that you can do that without changing a single thing about you.”
I want to defend Zane, and I know he didn’t mean anything by it. At least, I don’t think he did. I want to hope that it was for the investors. He seems to like me as is. And if he doesn’t, then he’s not the man I thought he was, and definitely not a man I want.
Chapter Twenty
Zane
Abby is late. I’m doing my best not to worry, but my best isn’t very good.
I’m drumming my fingers on the table, watching the door every thirty seconds for her to sweep inside with the two tons of confidence she always manages to stuff inside her tiny frame.
“We’re on track for a mid-April launch,” Jack is saying. He gives my shoulder a crushing squeeze, his way of telling me to get in the conversation. But I’ve always hated this game. Especially now that my mind is elsewhere.
And the two investors have finished off a bottle of wine between them already somehow, which is bad considering the appetizers haven’t even arrived yet. Jack gives me a less subtle look, and I clear my throat, turning my attention to the table.
“That’s right. We’re in the final stages now.”
Davis—the one with the unfortunate hairpiece that looks like a beaver pelt perched on his round head—bangs his hand down on the table and begins humming notes that sound vaguely familiar. When no one joins in, he says, “Come on! The Final Countdown?”
He’s humming again, only louder. Christopher, the one in the cowboy hat, joins him this time, and then they’re both looking at us. Jack eyes me, shrugging, before he joins in.
So, it’s going to be that kind of dinner.
The song is vaguely familiar, but I can’t bring myself to join them. We’re not in that kind of restaurant, the kind where loud humming—which is quickly morphing into singing—goes unnoticed. It’s a steakhouse. Low lights, quiet laughter, and highly rated food. We honestly might get booted before having any serious talks.
Who am I kidding? Serious talks? These guys are starting their second bottle of wine.
I’m just about to use the restroom as an excuse to apologize to our server when I see her.
“Abby,” I say, even though she’s still across the room.
Jack and the investors turn to see what I’m staring at. One of them makes a low whistle that has the territorial side of me getting all hot and bothered.
Jack leans over to me. “I don’t know what you said to her, but wow.”
“Shut up,” I tell him, my eyes glued to the woman who doesn’t know that she holds my heart in the palm of her small hand.
Abby hasn’t toned anything down. If anything, it’s like she turned the dial up, and she looks incredible. Her blonde and pink hair is shiny under the mood lighting, hanging down in soft curls that I just want to touch.
Her dark blue dress hangs off one shoulder, exposing the tattoo I had wondered about, a chameleon that goes from simple black to an array of colors, starting around her clavicle and curling around her shoulder. The heels she’s wearing are sky-high stilettos, the kind I could see her joking about using as weapons.
And the smile on her face … it’s confident but full of challenge, like she’s daring an
yone to stop her. She ignores the hostess, who's buzzing around her like a gnat, and strides across the room, her eyes locked on mine. I'm instantly ashamed that I ever let Jack’s concerns get to me. I would never have asked Abby to change a thing. This self-assuredness is all she needs. She could be wearing a trash bag and convince me to give over all my passwords.
We’ve all gotten to our feet, and I’m so thrown by her that Dan is the one who pulls her chair out for her.
“Hello, boys,” she says. “Sorry I’m late.”
Smiling at Dan and Christopher, she holds out her hand, showing off a black studded cuff bracelet wrapped around her wrist. They both practically jump to shake it.
“I’m Abby and I speak fluent geek. Please direct any questions about the tech side of things to me. Have we ordered?”
“Just the appetizers,” I tell her, and she turns her gaze on me as Christopher snaps his fingers for our waitress. Normally, I’d be flinching with embarrassment, but I can’t focus on anything but the flecks of green in Abby’s hazel eyes.
“Sorry for being late,” she says quietly. “And not sorry I didn’t listen to you about the dress code.”
I’m already shaking my head. “I’m sorry I asked. Truly. You look … there aren’t words. Honestly.”
Abby nods, then turns back to the table where the waitress is writing down additional appetizers. This is going to be a long—and expensive—meal.
But when Abby lets me grab her hand under the table a few minutes later, I could care less.
What VCs? What bug? What app?
All that matters is the woman beside me, whose hand I won’t let out of my grip.
Ordinarily, dinner would have dragged. The VCs are three sheets to the wind, as my father would say, and Jack is hardly any better. Neither Abby nor I drank, but it’s almost like babysitting a table full of overgrown toddlers who ate a whole basket of Halloween candy.
I’m horribly embarrassed, but all I can do is grit my teeth, secretly tell the waitress to ignore any requests for more alcohol. I hope we can walk out rather than be thrown out. It’s no accident that the tables surrounding ours have cleared out. I haven’t missed the glares being thrown our way, especially from a nearby group celebrating their matriarch’s eightieth birthday.
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