Page 58 of The Unfinished Line

“You should know by now, I’m not keen on doing anything mediocre. The only option is to try again….”

I was so pathetic. I couldn’t even pretend like this wasn’t exactly what I wanted.

But on the other hand, I also knew—despite my protests of not wanting to go—that we were running the risk of arriving late to the Hallwells.

God forbid.

She ran her lips across my temple, down my cheek, along the side of my neck.

I should realistically have been rushing to the parking garage, trying to get there before they towed my car.

Her mouth dropped lower, taking a detour to explore the curves of my breasts.

Yeah, what car? If they’d already towed it, there was no need to hurry. We could catch a late bus to Palo Alto.

She trailed down past my navel.

You know, I could just move to New York—I wouldn’t need a car there. Besides, it was two thousand miles closer to London.

She released her hold on my hands—we both knew I wasn’t going anywhere—and turned them toward a more rewarding occupation.

But my bag was in the car. My clothes. My toothbrush. My makeup. I couldn’t show up to the Hallwells in the same dress I’d worn the night before, my hair twisted into a fucked-and-forgot-my-brush bun.

Shut up, Kam.

I squeezed my eyes closed, my fingers tangling themselves in her wave of wet hair.

Who cared what I wore to the stupid brunch? I’d stop and buy anI Heart SFt-shirt in the lobby. Fuck it. Maybe I’d get one of thoseTacos and Tittiesrainbow tanks I’d seen them selling on the street corners.

Merry Christmas, Mrs. I-Guarantee-You’ve-Never-Had-Five-Star-Sex-Like-This Hallwell.

An hour and a half later, I stood on the polished calacatta marble of the Hallwells front entry, listening to the symphony of their trumpeting doorbell. My reflection greeted me in the spotless glass as we waited for admittance into the Fifth Terrace of Purgatory.

I looked like shit. I’d yanked on my wrinkled cardigan as we pulled onto the freeway and dabbed on a layer of makeup in the rearview mirror. My eyeliner looked as if it had been applied by a first-year cosmetology student who’d suddenly developed a tremor. And to top it all off, I knew I smelled like sex.

“Stop fretting,” Dillon hissed over the peal of chimes as I combed my fingers through my hair for the hundredth time. “You look fine!”

Dani opened the door. “Jesus, what happened?” She left no opening for me to feign misunderstanding. “Did you sleep in your car?”

“I—wow, thanks.” The best defense was a good offense, right? “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

She was unfazed. “You look awful.”

“I was up late.” I pulled Dillon past her into the hall. “Some of us still have to work to pay rent—as wild as that may sound to you.”

If I had caught Dillon’s eye—if she had laughed, or given me any kind of knowing smile—it would have been game over. Fortunately, I didn’t look in her direction and felt I sold myselfquite well. “We have to leave right after brunch. I have an early morning in the studio.”

Yeah, no. My only pressing plans revolved around bolting from this hell, hopping on Highway 1, weaving our way down the coast, and stopping in one of the little waterfront towns for the night. Waking up to sex and seagulls.

Darlene appeared at the end of the foyer, announcing it was time for pomegranate mimosas and smoky mezcal-fig sours, and for the moment, I was off the hook. We were herded into the dining room, where I found my parents and the rest of the Hallwell clan, family and friends, already at the table. As it did every year, all topics of conversation turned toward the outrageous Christmas presents they had gifted one another. Mr. Hallwell’s gift to himself—a 1961 vintage Aston Martin. Darlene showed off her Botswana diamond earrings, larger than the niçoise olives in her appetizer salad. Dani, evidently disgruntled with her gift from Tom, slung a Hermès Birkin Cargo bag onto the table. ”Idolike it,” she snapped over the rim of her mimosa, shooting a glare at her husband. “I just would have preferred the Hermès Himalayan.”

The conversation drifted.

To my right, my mom was intensely engaged in chat with Darlene’s aunt, Helena, who had once been a prominent equestrian. Across from me, Dani’s husband, Tom, was crowing to Mr. Hallwell about an investment he’d made that had tripled over the last seventy-two hours. And to my left, Dillon was politely nodding at Allyson, Darlene’s sister, who was rambling on about how strange it was to call a cookie a biscuit, when a biscuit was clearly not a cookie.

And me?

I was staring at my plate of caciocavallo cheese and pancetta pecan puffs, my thoughts lingering around the fiery feathers of the phoenix tattoo I’d finally gotten to fully appreciate onDillon’s back. I loved the intricacy of the design. The woven colors of the flame. The way the wings touched the tops of her shoulders.

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