Page 101 of Whiskey Splash

Out.

Toward all the things that scare me. All the things that threaten to drown me. All the things that I must face and conquer on my own.

* * *

I float in the ocean.

The waves have stopped crashing and I can see the milky way. It glitters above, large and more expansive than I ever dreamed possible.

Dreams can be funny. We put so much stalk in dreams, so much of our hopes, our wishes, our plans for who we could—who we should be.

In the ocean, staring up at the sky, I’m not sure I care about who I should be anymore. Who others think I am. Who I might have hoped, or feared, I might become. Or who I might have run away from. In fact, when faced with the billions upon billions of glittering stars—more stars than ounces of water beneath me as I float, more stars than grains of sand on the entire globe—I realize how small I am.

I realize that dreams are dangled before us like gemstones tied to a thread, making us reach and hope and gasp and regret. But when I stop thinking that the world should move for the wisp-filled fabrications in my head, I realize, I’m one small insignificant person. One small breath in the billions of breaths that fill the sky of this world. And one small person, loving another small person, feels far more precious and important than all the other insignificant judgments.

Lying still in the ocean, where I draw myself in the constellations, reflected in the heavens, reflected in the water. All one has to do is imagine drawing one dot to the next, to see themselves in all those wild indigo patterns. We can all put ourselves into the stars.

But somehow, that fantastical wish is nowhere near as important as one small person loving another small person.

Because love is the only thing that feels big in all that vastness.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The dress sways at my heels, layers upon layers of violet chiffon whispering against the curve of my ankle bones. Rhinestones and pearls peek against the light, winking and fluttering, like stars a billion miles away raging with one last blast of light before blinking into oblivion. I loved this dress because of the way it made me feel beautiful and invincible. I loved it because of the way Desmond couldn’t take his eyes off me, of how it made me feel glowing and radiant and like I could steal all the light in the room, bending it back into my undeniable gravity.

I love itnowbecause it reminds me of how insignificant a dress is. How it can look like the universe, but will always pale in comparison.

I love it now because it reminds me that my small life has very little impact on the larger things in the world, so I ought to not be afraid of the things I want and the tiny universes inside me that I can conquer all on my own.

I love it now, because it is just a dress, and I am just a girl, and walking into Desmond’s wrap party atFlambé isn’t all that important or consequential. It won’t send echoes through the world. It won’t matter if a few security guards turn a blind eye to let one small girl slip into a party. One picture on the internet shouldn’t sever all the things one felt were important and precious and full of worth.

People turn when I enter Arie’s restaurant and walk up into the main dining room of the wrap party. The dress alone is a showstopper, but add to it the lavender hair, the smoky eyes, and the fact that everyone in the room knows who I am. The crowd has spent more hours studying my bone structure, the shape of my open mouth, and the curve of my neck and spine—thrown back in pleasure—than even I have. All of them are voyeurs into my personal life, as if I should be ashamed, when they’re the ones who gave the image their voracious attention— studying and coveting and judging from afar.

Arie sees me first and nearly drops a tray. I nod to her, before turning all my attention to Desmond, who’s in the center of the room talking with the producers. The stirring of whispers makes Desmond turn, and the light that fills his eyes makes me feel like the center of the universe. The world was born out of fire and torment, land and ocean and sky burning from the toiling underground, and the surprise in his eyes comes from that same kernel of astonishment.

“What—? How—?” Desmond’s speaking to me even though I’m yards away, and the men in suits beside him turn, recognition filtering through their gazes. They know who I am, the girl in the photo—the scandal—stalking into their party in her glittering radiance.

Desmond’s eyes wet. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m here that gets to him, or that I’m braving all the things I said I couldn’t. Or maybe it’s the dress, this powerhouse of violet crystals, sparkling and demanding his attention.

“What are you doing here?” Desmond asks, as I stalk up to him, not breaking my stride. “What are you—?”

His unfished phrase feels like a compliment, a confession, a question laced in surprise and awe. What am I?

I wrap my arms around him and take him in a kiss; a hot, passionate, heart-pounding kiss. He melts into me like there’s no one around us—no party, no gawking, no cameras—only this tiny universe that’s made of us.

Us.

We.

Him and me.

He pulls back from the salt of my tongue, breathless. His eyes slip around the room, sizing up the crowd, and for the first time the un-bridled Desmond Pike actually blushes and looks—shy.

I’m not shy.That’s what he said that first date in the town car, right before he kissed me for the first time.I’m definitely not shy.

And yet, here I am, scandalizing him.

I grab his chin and turn his face back to mine. His attention belonging to me and no one else.

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