Page 27 of Wildest Dreams

“She’s not officially my girlfriend yet, and please don’t call her a rando. Let’s keep this project strictly business. I’m not interested in staging photos with you or pretending to be something I’m not, nor something we’re not.”

She sits back and crosses her arms, her leg shaking in frustration.

“Is she here?”

“Who?”

“Your non-girlfriend.” She pouts like a child.

“None of your business.”

“What’s her name?”

“Marina—”

“Oh, she’s Marina too?” she says sarcastically. “You have a thing for girls named after me? How sweet.”

I finally stop talking to her and pretend she doesn’t exist. We get through the rest of the day without any further snark, and when the table reads are done that afternoon, I slip away as fast as I can before she can say anything else or try to follow me home.

KENDALL

I’ve been a nervous wreck all day.

Yesterday, Patsy and I went back to Cotton Blossoms before she picked up her boys from her mom’s house so we could purchase yet another outfit for me to wear. Part of this feels a bit disingenuous, putting this much effort into my appearance when I don’t even do that on a daily basis, but I still feel like I’m trying to make up for the fact that Pierre basically saw me after I’d rolled out of bed when we met. Maybe if I look extra put together from here on out, he’ll forget what I look like before I’ve brushed my hair in the morning.

The dress we choose is red and white paisley. No shoes this time, since we’ll be at my apartment. I do, however, get a manicure and pedicure so my nails are in good shape.

About an hour before Pierre is scheduled to arrive, I do my makeup and hair, then collapse on the couch and look around. I wish I’d put more effort into the decor of this place. I have a queen bed with a sage comforter and the chifforobe. On the opposite side is a small couch from IKEA and a TV. Apart from the long gray curtains over the nearly floor-length windows, there isn’t anything on the walls and, aside from some photos with my parents and a few with Patsy and our friends Micah and Sistine on a side table, I’ve done basically nothing to make this place feel homey.

It’s too late to worry about that now.

Finally, I hear the door buzzer. I check my face one last time in the bathroom mirror, then bounce downstairs to let Pierre in. He’s wearing a dark green polo with only one button fastened and tan shorts. The color of his shirt makes his blue eyes look more emerald. I sigh. It should be a sin for any man to be this gorgeous.

After the usual hellos, I grab some of the grocery bags and show him upstairs.

“You weren’t kidding about the tiny kitchen,” he says, setting the food down on the stove.

I cringe. Now I’m regretting letting him come over.

“I—"

“Don’t apologize.”

I pause. He totally called me out on that. “I wasn’t going to,” I lie.

“Yes, you were.” He smiles, showing off his dimples.

“Okay, you’re right. I just don’t have a great setup for cooking.”

“It’s fine. We’ll make it work.” He starts to unpack the bags—loads of vegetables, cheese, wine—and I suddenly realize I forgot to eat lunch. I am starving.

“What are we having?” I ask.

“I decided to keep it simple with pizza. I got store-bought dough since you said the kitchen was small.”

“Good thinking.”

He pulls out two bottles of wine from brown paper bags. “Red and white,” he says. “I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.”

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