Page 66 of Butterfly Effect

In your dreams.

Pretty Boy

Every single night

Me

I can’t stand you.

Pretty Boy

You wouldn’t even have to stand

Pretty Boy

Just tie me up, take a seat right here on my face and ride til dawn

It’s not normal to get turned on by this.

End me now.

That way I have an excuse not to show up to this ridiculous birthday party.

Why is it such a big deal anyway? We’re all born, and we all die. And for my family, both events happened in October. My birth and Mom’s death. Grief and joy were forever and inextricably intertwined.

I tilt my head at the reflection, studying how the black dress fits. The material is gorgeous, chiffon or something, and the lace-up back plumps my chest against the scoop neck and creates a waist where there otherwise is none. My thigh peeks from the high slit, and I sway my knee to and fro with a pointed toe, accentuating the length of my legs. Okay, that’s sexy.

My eyes wander up, and a frown appears.

When I mentioned having to dress nice, Indi’s friend, Sheena, had it mailed over. I don’t want to sound ungrateful,and having fashion influencer contacts who can hook you up is nice, but it’d probably look better on either of them. Or even Bea. Their boobs would actually fill it, and as a long-standing chair of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, I simply am not capable.

“It’s fake,” I say to the mirror, splaying my palms over the bust. “It doesn’t matter if my boobs look good or not.”

I dread having to put on a full face. I should be used to it, but it’s different when it’s for work. Jas and her makeup crew are magicians. I nearly take my left eye out when applying a set of lashes and curse myself for not asking her to help me get ready tonight. Once it’s on and I’ve fixed the teary smear of foundation, it’s not so bad.

Hair free from their roller prisons, I do a quick floof and let the long curls bounce past my shoulders. Choosing between sensible sandals and uncomfortable stilettos just to surpass Wade’s height wastes some time, but I finally opt for a pair of open-toed block heels.

I can never manage to get these on without looking like a tangled grasshopper, but after a lot of huffing and puffing, they’re secure. I’ll sleep in them before having to go through that again.

Unless someone takes them off for me.

Shut up, brain. It’s not happening.

He’s not even here, but somehow, he can still get me worked up.

How annoying.

Off to this celebration, I go.

Goosebumps and nerves prickle across my skin as I exit the Uber. The doorman to Wade’s building stiff-arms the crowd and ushers me through the incessant flashing of paparazzi cameras, but despite the warmer temperature inside, the goosebumps remain.

It’s a party. Could be fun, right? Or it could be unbearable to have Wade at my side, callused hands touching me in surprisingly gentle ways and making me feel things for him I have no business feeling.

Bappa, give me strength.

Oh, my God. This man has me praying.

The elevator beeps as I get to the penthouse, and they slide open to equally wide-open doors. An instrumental indie folk tune softly plays from within, like Bon Iver and Hozier had a baby. I don’t hate it.

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