Page 124 of Valentine Nook
The Fall Ball is in a week. I’ll smile, and twirl and do what needs to be done, then fly out to New York before midnight. Lando will become a fond memory, and I’ll be the same to him.Just a fond memory.
It makes sense. We should cut our losses before someone gets seriously hurt. It will be painful enough as it is. Better to rip off the Band-Aid now.
“I need help,” Clemmie squeaks from the confines of the dressing room as she walks out backward. “I’m stuck.”
I rush over to her, tugging on the zipper until it comes loose and Clemmie can slip out of it.
“Have you decided what you’re wearing?” she puffs out from the other side of the dressing room door.
I shrug. “Ashley shipped over a couple of dresses for me.”
“Cool, so we can have a trying-on session for those too?”
“Sure. If you’d like,” I say, happy that she can’t see my face because I’m sure it’s clear I’d rather do anything but.
I couldn’t bear the thought of going shopping for the Fall Ball. It felt like I was buying a dress for a funeral. I knew I had enough at my place in Los Angeles that could work instead, so I asked Ashley to ship over a couple that would be suitable.
It makes me feel better about what I’m planning to do.
I don’t deserve a new dress when it’s only going to be worn for breaking a heart. Two hearts, if you include mine, though I’m beginning to wonder if I don’t have one.
The door of the changing room swings open. Clemmie’s back in her jeans and sweater and has the ballgown draped over her arm. She takes it to the register and holds it high on its hanger so it can be rung up. I go back to flicking aimlessly through the piles of sweaters and cozy fall clothes. Normally, I’d be stockpiling them and burning a hole in my AMEX, but I can’t even find it in myself to look at them properly or with any enthusiasm.
And when my phone pings with a message, I welcome the distraction and open it.
MARCY: First L’Oreal shoot scheduled for New York, January fifteenth after the Golden Globes. You good with this?
I’m tempted to reply that I’m not. They should make the shoot in London, or Paris, or Valentine Nook, but what’s the point?
HOLIDAY: Yes, fine.
MARCY: Good. Also, I have the final proofs back from the test shoot. You look good. Perhaps my favorite shots of you, ever. Image 4 is *heart eyes* emoji.
Iopen the file she sent in her message, and a dozen images of my face stare back at me. Each is different. Close-up and full body, smiling and not smiling. Or in the case of Marcy’s favorite, caught unaware and laughing my ass off.
She’s correct. I do look good. I look happy.
Lando was sitting out of shot, and I know I’m laughing because he’d fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted from a night of French-style lovemaking. The makeup artist had whispered to me in her thick accent that he was a sexy older guy, but I’d called him a lightweight.
He hadn’t been asleep at all, just faking it. He’d overheard the entire conversation and promised to show me the meaning of the word later. The rosy cheeks I’m sporting in the picture aren’t from blush, that’s for sure.
The memory is a stark contrast to the way we’ve drifted through the past two weeks, painfully aware our ending date isnear. There’s been an unspoken intensity between us—clinging to each other every night, making love, lingering goodbye kisses every morning.
But I know we’re only prolonging the inevitable.
The heartbreak has already begun.
“What’s that?” Clemmie asks from over my shoulder when she’s done paying.
I turn the screen to her. “My test shots from Paris.”
She snatches my phone away and peers hard at each image. “Holy moly, you look incredible. So natural. You’re glowing. Wow. Send me the list of those products they used on you. I want to look that good.”
I’m not going to tell her the reason I was glowing had nothing to do with L’Oreal products and everything to do with her brother.
Instead, I force a laugh and change the subject. “Where are your bags?”
“They’re sending them to Burlington,” she replies, then notices my empty hands. “You’re not buying anything?”
