Page 10 of The Kiss Countdown

This year, however, as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and try to preserve my curls, I’m contemplating doing a Big Chop right here and now.

“Oh, come on,” I whimper.

I spent all afternoon getting ready for my evening with Vincent, performing my usual routine before a big party.While the Bluetooth speakers blasted my favorite playlist, I gave myself a facial, took a steaming-hot bath, and set my hair in twists. After that, I tried on at least five dresses before deciding to go with the first one and pairing it with my black stilettos that tie at the ankle.

Then I took my hair down, only to discover it was still damp. If I leave it like this, by the end of the night my curls will lose all definition and shrink, and I’ll come home resembling Samuel L. Jackson inUnbreakable.

I stare at my reflection and shake my head.

Why am I putting myself through so much stress when I don’t even want to go to the party? I would rather turn on the TV and watch the Times Square ball drop as a whole bunch of celebrities and TV personalities I’m not even up to date with talk about nothing of importance, then watch the fireworks light up the skyline from my window before calling it a night. Up until two days ago my plan had been exactly that.

The sound of the front door opening and closing stops me from doing anything drastic like calling Vincent to cancel—or switching the bottle of oil in my hands for a pair of scissors. Two seconds later, Gina’s voice fills the apartment as she announces her arrival by trying to sing over the Jazmine Sullivan song playing. I use my phone to turn off the music.

Gina appears in the doorway pouting. “What happened to the music?”

“It was over.” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “Did you bring it?”

Gina’s arm disappears into her oversize purse before she pulls out a small pink-and-black box and waves it in the air with a triumphant smile. “Got it right here.”

I knew she wouldn’t let me down. Her bag is like a chicsurvival kit, always full of things like granola bars, flashlights, travel-size Tabasco bottles, and makeup. In the event of a zombie attack, alien invasion, or the apocalypse, I’d be able to count on her keeping us fed and beautiful.

I turn around with my palm out, but Gina keeps the box close to her chest.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she says. “I want to know why you need my last box of booby tape first. It’s New Year’s Eve, and as far as I knew, we didn’t have any plans. What gives? Also, I had to rush through my last client and then sit in an hour of traffic to get here in time. And you already know how much of a hassle it is to even get this brand.”

“Look, Gina,” I cut in when she takes a breath. “We can stand here all night while you go on and on, or you can let me get a word in and give you all the answers you seek.”

She clamps her lips shut. As I reach for the box again, she stuffs it back in her purse and raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“Fine,” I grumble and turn back to the mirror. “Do me a favor. Google Vincent Rogers.”

Gina narrows her eyes but gets out her phone.

While she types, I grab my makeup bag from the bottom cabinet. I spritz my face with primer and use my hand as a fan to dry it.

“Okay, Mr. Astronaut. Come through in that blue onesie,” Gina says, ignoring the look I give her when she says onesie. Then, squinting at the screen, she gasps. “Isn’t this the guy from Moon Bean?”

“Yup.”

“Noice,” she says, giving the word anoysound. “How did you find out what he does? Did you Internet-stalk him?” She smirks at me.

I huff. “You know I did not Internet-stalk him.”

Gina makes herself comfortable on the granite countertop, sitting with her legs swinging while I give her a half-hearted stank eye. I don’t truly mind if Gina sits on the counter. One thing I’ve loved about this apartment is the spacious bathroom with his-and-hers sinks. The tub is a good size too. What I love even more is how the complex was newly built when I moved in, so I’ve been the first one to experience the great amenities. It’s so very different from what I was accustomed to growing up, where the showerheads were typically coated in rust before we even moved in. Is that what I have to look forward to again if I can’t keep this apartment?

“Well, don’t tell me you joined him for a nice civil chat over coffee and he told you all about his life,” Gina presses. “As much as you complained about him, there’s no way I’ll believe that.”

“No, he didn’t tell me about his life over coffee. It was a little more complicated than that.”

“Oh? Do go on.”

I pick up my blending sponge and try not to grimace. When Gina returned home yesterday and texted me, I deliberately put off telling her about my run-in with Derrick or the favor I owed Vincent. I knew she’d make it a bigger deal than it is. But with Gina here in person, there’s no more hiding. I start blending my concealer and foundation while relaying the whole story. With each new sentence, Gina’s jaw drops half an inch, and I’m surprised it doesn’t pop out of its socket by the time I’m done.

“Mimi, I cannot believe you did that,” she says when I end the tale. “And for the record, there is no way to convince me Derrick just happened to drop in with his new girlfriend. He was trying to make you jealous, and itbackfired gloriously. He must have been crying and throwing up all night when he found out you upgraded to anastronaut.”

“The look on his face was pretty satisfying,” I admit. “It made the whole ordeal worth it.”

“Look at you. All petty and stuff. I love it.”

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