Page 105 of The Unraveling

My mom would love all this. God. I can’t believe she won’t see the pictures. Little as we talked, I would have shared them with her.

Alistair doesn’t touch me as we walk in, and he answers one of the paparazzi asking who is that by telling them that I’m Jocelyn Banks, a ballerina with the RNB.

We walk up the red carpet and into the gallery.

I felt a little ridiculous just being myself in this dress and everything, but here, in this context, I can see that wearing anything else would have been a huge mistake. Everyone here drips of money.

I nibble on pieces of cheese and drink champagne as Alistair mingles. It’s not until an hour in that I see the only other person there who is not dripping of money. But just like me, he’s dressed the part.

Jordan.

And he looks stunning.

He’s in a tailored suit that looks exactly on trend. Someone else must have dressed him. He’s not one of those guys who wears button-downs and khakis, not at all. But he’s not this trendy.

I find myself drifting toward him like a ghost, my heeled feet moving of their own accord.

He sees me and does a double take.

“Just one moment,” I hear him say to the man he’s talking to.

He comes toward me.

“Jocelyn.”

“Jordan. What are you doing here?”

He gives a sheepish look. “I have a few pieces in the show.”

“Oh—duh, of course. Yeah. Of course you do.”

He smiles. He looks more handsome than last time I saw him. How? Did life without me suit him that much?

Or do I just not remember him accurately?

I am about to ask why he never texted me when someone walks up to us.

“Everything else here is shit,” she says. “Oh, hi!”

Up close, she looks familiar. I can’t place her, except that I’m certain she’s the same woman from Jordan’s apartment.

“Jocelyn Banks,” I say, holding out my hand.

“I know—we’ve met.” She glances at Jordan.

“Jocelyn, you remember my sister, Adrienne.”

“S-sister?”

They both look at me with confusion and then everything clicks back into place.

“Holy shit,” I say. “You look—you look a lot different. Or am I wrong? Sorry, I feel so rude for not recognizing you, Adrienne, yes, of course I remember you.”

I don’t feel that bad actually, because she looks almost unrecognizable. Last time I met her was on a FaceTime call when Jordan and I first started dating. She had long dark hair and she weighed about forty pounds more. The worst part is that we’ve texted a lot. Like, a lot. Not since Jordan and I broke up, obviously. But before that, a lot.

“It’s fine,” she says. “My own mom didn’t recognize me. Long story short, I divorced my boring husband and moved my kids to L.A. Now one goes to school with J. Lo’s kids and I do yoga every day—oh, I’ll take one of those.”

She intercepts a glass of champagne off a passing tray.

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