Page 217 of Irreversible

Jasper rubs a hand over his chin. “Yeah,” he says. “Hopefully, we all make it out unscathed.”

Moisture puddles in my eyes, and I let out a shaky exhale.

I think of Isaac, of his loss.Sara.He’d do anything to get her back, and here I am, pushing away someone I love. Life is too short for that. Time is fleeting, and regret has a way of carving out a place in your soul, filling it with missteps you can never take back. Seconds tick by as memories resurface—all the moments I’ve spent wishing things could be different, that I’d made better choices, that I’d been stronger.

A waste.

A slap in the face to everything I’ve gained and grown from.

I stare out the window and whisper back, “It’s never too late to start over.”

Backstage, the air hums with chaotic energy—voices shouting over each other, makeup brushes sweeping over razor-cut cheekbones, and the constant snap of fabric as stylists tug dresses into place.

The show is taking place at a yacht club off the Bay, with a glorious view of the Golden Gate Bridge. I can almost taste the salt air from outside as I weave my way through the crowdedroom, dodging a rolling rack of sequined gowns and nearly tripping over a box of heels. Everywhere I look, models in varying stages of prep are being worked on, hair teased and pinned, their skin glimmering under harsh fluorescents and ring lights.

I find a quiet corner near a vanity stacked with cosmetic palettes and gloss tubes and take a steadying breath. There’s a cloying sweetness in the air fused with hairspray and perfume, and it sticks in my throat, making it hard to swallow through the knot of nerves.

The theme for the night is “Seasons.”

Models move like clockwork, all set to wear outfits that align with spring, summer, autumn, and winter. We’re showcasing winter first, my gown an avant-garde take on the theme. Bold and futuristic, the fabric is a metallic silver that shifts in hue as it moves, like the sky caught between twilight and dawn.

“Remember, it’s going to be raining on the runway for spring,” an assistant announces, reminding us of the program. “Double up on that setting spray.”

Before I turn away, a makeup artist materializes with a brush poised like a weapon. “Sit,” she commands, and then I’m pressed into the makeup chair. She tilts my chin up, smearing a foundation sponge across my jawline. “You’re good.” Satisfied, the woman releases me.

A pang of anxiety flares in my chest as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Bulb lights rim the glass, illuminating the snowflake gems glittering in the outer corners of my eyes. I look like someone else, someone I used to know—the model who walked these runways without a second thought, who knew the exact angle of her body and how to glide without hesitation. But the person staring back at me now is wildly different.

I’m not sure if I miss her or not.

“You’re on in two minutes!” someone shouts, and I feel a hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the hairline curtain that separates us from the buzzing crowd.

My ankles wobble in my silver heels that stretch for days. I close my eyes and imagine what Queenie would say to me right now. Probably something sarcastic.

“Try not to fall on your face, Angel Baby. Or at least do it gracefully.”

My cue arrives.

I take a deep breath and step forward, the bright lights swallowing me as I glide onto the runway. The overheads gleam like stars, and the crowd fades into shadows beyond the spotlights. Cameras flash, a sea of snapping lenses capturing each stride. Ahead, a model shifts and sways in her winter ensemble, keeping me focused on my task as she whizzes by.

Trying not to squint, I assess the crowd from my vantage on the runway, a blur of silhouettes staring back. I scan the crowd for Jasper, but can’t make out any faces. Only hints of designer suits and cocktail dresses, crushed between a wall of photographers. There’s a pulse in the air, and the camera flashes assault me in bursts, like mini lightning storms. At the end of the runway, I pivot sharply, managing a half-smile as I turn back toward the stage.

The second I step into the dressing room, a team of hands is on me, tugging and adjusting. My frosted gown is stripped away, replaced by a sheer floral dress that floats around me like a soft whisper. Another pair of hands fastens a clear raincoat over it, snapping it into place with a wide, transparent belt.

Someone thrusts a prop umbrella into my hand. “You’re back on in five!” a voice yells from behind me.

I tighten my grip on the umbrella, stepping up to the edge of the curtain as the music shifts to something whimsical, reminiscent of the ‘80s or early ‘90s.

A little strange…

The stage manager glances at her clipboard as the model in front of me takes the runway. “This isn’t the right song.”

“Are we going with it?” a production assistant asks.

“Too late now.” She sighs, flicking her wrist to signal me forward. “Go. Make it work.”

I inhale a sharp breath and step out, imagining how I’m going to release the belt at the end of the runway without looking like a rookie fumbling with her seatbelt in coach.

Here we go.

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