by Staci Hart
Once I unloaded the stacks of clothes onto his bed—which I would absolutely catch shit for—I headed back out.
“Need anything before I go?”
“Nah. Thanks for Gino’s. Sure hit the spot.”
“Anytime, Billy.” I clapped him on the shoulder as I passed. “Tell Peg I said hi.”
“In your dreams. She’d pick you over me twelve times over ten.”
I laughed, opening the door. “Bye, Pop.”
“See you tomorrow, son.”
Down the stairs I went and back into the street, pointing myself toward Midtown and work, where I’d already turned in my recount of the Gatsby party. It had poured out of me the second I opened my laptop, the remains of the party still fresh and clear and eager to fill pages. The spectacle of it all. The familiar faces.
Stella Spencer.
I’d left her out for obvious reasons, leaning into the atmosphere. That was what people wanted to know, to feel. They wanted to be there, and I hoped I could usher them through the portal I’d been so fortunate to pass through. And with every party I was able to attend, the layers would peel back to uncover the truth, as they always did. Because I already knew there was more going on than it seemed.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the look I’d find on Stella’s face when I rose to her challenge and finagled my way in again, looking for that glass she’d promised me after the taste I couldn’t forget.
It was shaping up to be one of the more memorable assignments I’d taken on.
I’d gone from Columbia to freelancing, submitting articles to everything from the Times to Washington Post to Esquire and Vagabond, hoping to impress someone enough to give me a permanent job. And for five years, that paid the bills. But it was a piece I had done about sex workers—three months of deep on-the-streets research, a broken nose and near stabbing by a pimp, and too many fights with johns to count—that had gotten the attention of my editor and won me the coveted staff writer title. And when I was through with the Bright Young Things, I’d hop a plane and fly into a war zone, so I could experience the pain of those who were stripped of everything in the hopes that maybe, if I did my job well, I could incite some change in the world.
Heat wafted off the pavement as I traversed the six blocks to the office. By the time I walked into the cool, crisp lobby, sweat had dampened my shirt, and I patted myself on the swampy back for deciding on shorts and Vans over jeans and combats.
It seemed like there was music everywhere—from the rock playing in the common areas to our personal preferences playing in our small, glass-walled offices. There were no suits and ties, no pencil skirts and pearls. We weren’t one of those hippie tech companies who didn’t believe in chairs or had Segways to ride through the private dog park, but we were the height of casual. Nobody gave a fuck what you were wearing, and we had everything from bonkers, off-the-runway getups to shredded jeans and Ramones tees. But it was a live and let live sort of place, one that valued originality and beauty in words and imagery above all.
My editor’s assistant, Kendall, rolled her chair over and stuck her head out of her office. “Levi, Yara wants to see you. About the BYT.”
I frowned. “She already read it?”
“Uh-huh.” She winked before rolling back to her desk.
Whatever the hell that means.
I had a hard time believing I was about to get praised. She was going to slash the shit out of my prose, no doubt. Remind me I wasn’t Truman Capote. Tell me the article was canceled. But whatever it was, I doubted it would be good.
I knocked on Yara’s doorframe, interrupting the intense eye contact she had with her computer screen. She blinked and smiled.
“You wanted to see me?” I started.
“I did. Have a seat.” When I did, she snapped her laptop closed and leaned back in her chair. “I read the piece.”
“I heard.”
“You look surprised.”
I shrugged. “When was the last time you read an article of mine within an hour of me sending it?”
A laugh. “Never. But I’m as curious as the next girl about what goes on at those parties. When’s the next one?”
“Next week. You pulling the plug?”
“Nope. I’m here to push you full steam ahead.”
Relieved, I smiled. “Good, probably would have still gone.”
“If you hadn’t, I’d have happily taken your place. Because if it’s anything like you described, it defies imagination. I’m not ashamed to say, I’m jealous as fuck that it was you and not me who got to go. What’s the next theme?”
“Don’t know.”
“Oh, come on. The secret’s protected by our confidentiality agreement.”
“What confidentiality agreement?” I said on a laugh.
“Don’t make me beg.”
“Sorry, boss,” I goaded her even though I really didn’t know the answer. “Guess you’ll find out when I turn in my next piece.”
Yara sighed. “Asshole.”
I smiled. “Anything else?”
“Just that. This is good, Levi. Really good. Like, cover-story good.”
My heart skipped again, this time for new reasons. “You think?”
“It’s what I’m pushing for. Mind if I send notes? If you can send revisions today, I can put it in for proof.”
My brows pinched together. “It wasn’t meant to stand alone. I just needed it out of my head. Material for the big piece.”
“I know, but it never hurts to have something this good locked and loaded. Cool?”
Against my better judgment, I said, “Yeah, cool.”
She offered a winning smile. “If Marcella doesn’t flip her shit, I’m kicking her out and taking her job.”
I laughed at the image of Yara literally kicking our editor in chief out of her chair and sinking her skinny ass into it. “A coup?” I asked as I stood. “You’re gonna need rebels.”
“Good thing I’ve got a whole office of them to enlist. Now get out so I can get your notes together, and don’t leave for the day until you send them back.”
“Yes, sir.”
She snorted a laugh, and I left her office on a track for mine. Yara had put a little swagger in my step with the praise, and by the time I sat down at my computer, I found myself with an abundance of hope.
A cover story. My dream gig when it was done. More parties, where I would see a lot more of Stella, if I was lucky.
And I was feeling real lucky.
4
Little Gold Book
STELLA
With a long, slow stretch, I yawned myself awake.
Judging by the sunlight pouring through my windows, it was well after noon, an unsurprising time to wake, given that I’d walked in the door as the sun was rising, casting my apartment in pinks and purples.
Apartment was perhaps an understatement—a five-thousand-square-foot loft in Tribeca was a coveted real estate purchase by anyone’s standards. A gift from my father when I’d graduated from high school with my name on the deed. His name was on the deed to the building.
My parents’ divorce when I was a little girl had been very ugly and very public, though I didn’t catch the worst of it—my time was spent in the company of nannies and tutors. Dad left our Upper East penthouse on impact, and Mom was as present as ever, which meant I saw her a few times a week in passing. But the upside to their chaos was a newfound level of freedom—I was allowed to have sleepovers whenever I wanted.
Which was how Betty became the closest thing I had to a sister.
Her dad was always on the road, and her mom went with him, leaving Betty’s grandma, Sheila, in charge. So I spent most nights over there, so happy for the company, I’d have moved in if they’d let me. I found a place there, a happy place where straight As were celebrated with Funfetti cupcakes and breaking curfew got you a talking-to. Theirs were the faces I looked for in the crowd at dance recitals, the people I celebrated my life with.
It was then that I’d learned
I could choose my family. And I’d chosen Betty and Sheila.
I know, I know—poor little rich girl. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t hate my parents, and we never fought. Never once had they raised their voices to me in fact, and I’d never even been grounded. Mom was pleasant and always seemed happy. Dad was distant, but his job was so demanding, we barely knew each other. I didn’t hate them or even resent them. Because I wouldn’t have had Betty and Sheila otherwise.
When Sheila died a few years ago, Betty and I were lost. We spent a solid month in bed, nurturing each other’s grief. But nothing could mend the empty space she’d left, the only mother figure we’d ever known. But we still had each other, and that was something. Something that tempered our friendship to steel.
My father, whom I hadn’t seen in years, put an obscene amount of money in a trust for me before the divorce—strictly to keep it from my mother’s bank account, I was certain. Not that it fazed her. She jumped straight into the next handsome Italian leather wallet. Then the next. Six weddings I’d attended—the seventh around the corner—and as a result, I had enough step siblings to make a baseball team.
I thought Mom was in Malta. Or was it the Riviera? Mostly, I kept up with her through her Instagram as she yachted her way through the Mediterranean with her silver fox du jour. Occasionally, we texted. Once a year or so, we called. Every couple of years, I saw her for another of her weddings. But we hadn’t spent a Christmas together since I was in high school, and my birthday gifts always came by way of a courier.
Though I would have given just about anything to have a mother, a family, their absence hadn’t bothered me so much after I found Betty. I’d made a home for my heart where my best friend loved me and my surrogate grandma cared for me. A place where I could escape what might hurt me, a place where I was safe. And we’d made that place perfect, never without a plan of attack for fun and foe alike. Whenever we had to do something we didn’t want to do, we’d reward ourselves with something fun. Concert tickets. Shopping sprees. An epic night out when we were older. Sparkle Bombs, we called them. Because everyone knew if you got hit with a sparkle bomb, you’d never get the glitter off. And that was exactly how we liked it—we wanted to be covered in happy forever, thankyouverymuch.
We chose to be happy instead of sad, much preferring to ignore the bad and focus solely on the good. Life was so much easier that way, so much more fun.
Even in high school, we partied with the same crew we were with now. Prep school friends turned into college friends—Betty and I graduated from NYU a few years ago, and no one else strayed far from Manhattan. Our core group spanned ages from mid-twenties into early-thirties, the overlap bridged by siblings and mutual friends. Plenty of people had come and gone, but in the end, we were a unit, a force, a familiar space.
And the creation of the Bright Young Things had only brought us closer together. We were a big, unruly family, a gang echoing the idea of a chosen family. The experiences we shared were some of the best in my memory.
Just another reason why I slipped into Cecelia Beaton’s shoes. We wanted to take things bigger, and I didn’t do anything halfway.
I rolled over with a sigh, pulling a spare pillow into my chest. Last night’s party slid into my mind, replacing lingering shadows with glitter and shine. It’d been a smash, and we’d hit no trouble with the cops, thank God. The constant badgering by Commissioner Warren had stopped being cute months ago, and though we always had our permits in place, some things were just unavoidable. Like serving underage kids.
You might tell Billie Eilish she couldn’t have a drink, but I wasn’t going to.
But last night had been perfect, utterly and completely.
Including the kiss.
A smile spread on my face, then through my chest, and I sighed again. That Kiss.
Levi and I had watched each other across the room for the rest of the night, though neither of us made a move. It was anyone’s guess why he didn’t, but as for me? If I’d gotten within ten feet of him, who knew where we would have ended up—a bathroom stall, a dark alley, any secluded corner we could have found. Certainly nowhere with a bed and definitely somewhere one of us would have gotten tetanus. Instead, we’d left the challenge I’d set hanging between us with anticipation on its tail. Because if he managed to get into a party again, it’d be tetanus or bust.
And God, I hoped he showed up again.
I took a long moment to recount my memories of him, from the first moment I’d seen him through That Kiss. Every time I’d spotted him, his eyes had been trained on me, his gaze locking me down like shackles. Hot, steamy shackles that did something tingly to my nethers. Poor, neglected nethers that tingled just at the memory.
He’d be the perfect diversion, the best kind of distraction. My very own Sparkle Bomb after the drudgery of spending the last month trying to get over Dex. Something casual and easy, something to make me feel good. I needed casual and easy. Complicated disinterested me on the molecular level.
With the flip of my covers, I rolled out of bed in search of coffee. A twist of my hair had it in a bun as I padded down the hall and into the open living space, walled in by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a crosscut of Manhattan, with Midtown rising in the distance and the East River beyond.
I had just started the espresso machine when the door flew open, and Betty walked in wearing her dress from last night, hands in the air and heels hooked in her index fingers.
“I am the queen of the world!” she proclaimed as the door closed behind her.
“That good, huh?” I asked.
“Better.” She tossed her shoes and reached into her cleavage to extract her ID and money. “How about you?” She glanced around. “Where’s that beefcake who had laser eyes on you all night?”
“I told you I wasn’t hooking up with him. But if he manages to show up to Cirque Du Freak next week, all bets are off.”
“Zeke and I were really hoping you’d cave and hook up with him anyway.”
“You’re a terrible influence.”
“Thank you,” she said earnestly, laying her hand over mine.
The keypad on the door beeped, and I frowned in its direction, wondering which of my friends was on the other side just before the door flew open.
And Zeke blew in like hellfire.
He was light and dark, his face fresh and furious. Hair was combed back to expose his undercut in a streak of platinum, the rest of him swathed in black from his Chucks to his jeans to his tee. Even on a regular day, Zeke was quite possibly the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, but with his jaw filed steel and his eyes glinting with rage, he looked like an angel of death. Trailing behind him were two massive suitcases, one of them sprouting boa feathers from the zipper.
“Why didn’t anybody tell me Roman was a useless shitbag?” The door slammed, and Zeke whipped the suitcases around before letting them go. They rolled several feet away before coming to a stop, but he was already storming to my liquor cabinet, ignoring the bar cart for the serious stuff. “I need a fucking drink.”
Betty and I exchanged a glance.
“What did he do now?” I asked, watching him slam a bottle of whiskey on the counter and tear open the cabinet where the glasses were.
“What the fuck didn’t he do?” He poured until the glass was three-quarters full. A dry laugh escaped him. “Drugs? Fine, what’s new? Being an asshole? That’s a fucking Tuesday. Getting blown by a twink in the bathroom? What-thefuck-ever. But fucking Magnus Dixon in our bed at our place in my fucking clothes is the end. It’s the goddamn end of the motherfucking line.” In one spectacular motion, he knocked back the glass, downed it, and set the glass down on the counter with an aggressive clink and a wince. “He even let that bitch wear my Marco Marco and then had the nerve to ask if I wanted it back. He’s lucky I didn’t fucking kill him.”
Neither of us spoke, too shocked to know what kind of answer he needed.
He poured another drink. “They’ve been seeing each other
for months. Months he’s lied to me. I should have known. I’m so fucking stupid for not seeing it.” A noisy breath through his nose nearly stuck his nostrils together. “I’m done. Done.” He slammed the second and snapped the word, “Fucker.”
“I don’t know what you were doing with that using whore anyway, Z,” Betty said, shooting for detachment. “Know your worth!”
Zeke let out a laugh. “Bitch was lucky he had all this. Next time, do your jobs and don’t let me move in with a liar.” His smile fell. “One rule—that’s all I have. One rule: do not fucking lie to me. So I’m moving in, Stell.”
“I figured,” I teased, nodding to his suitcases. With a couple of steps, I closed the gap between us to thread my arms around his narrow waist, pressing my ear to his chest where his heart thundered. “Stay as long as you want, Zeke.”
He wrapped his arms around me, clinging to me as he took a shuddering breath. “I loved him,” he said softly.
“I know.”
A stretch of silence passed. “This is why I came here, Star Bright. It’s impossible to be sad around you. You are the brightest, warmest, most sparkly star in the sky.” With another breath, Zeke packed his feelings away and swiped at his cheeks with twin flicks. Like Betty, he glanced around, looking for Levi, no doubt.
“Where’s your pretty boy? Tell me he’s here. I need cheering up.”
“God, you guys are the worst,” I said. “I told you I wasn’t going home with him.”
Zeke made a face. “Wait—you were serious?”
Betty gestured to him with her brows up and a silent see? sitting in her upturned palm.
“Yes, I was serious.”
He sighed. “You always were the moral one.”
I snorted a laugh. “The bar’s pretty low.”
Zeke shrugged. “Think he’ll come to the next one?”
