“Um, yes,” I say. “She’s swimming in thebathtub as we speak.”
Rachel’s eyebrow rises, a small crease folding into her forehead as she does so. “Swimming? How large is that bathroom of yours?”
“According to Lily the tub itself should be considered Olympic-sized,” I rattle off, thinking back to how Lily had screamed so loudly when she entered the room that I was positive she just caused me to go deaf in that one single moment.
“So, you do enjoy the finer things in life,” she comments, putting her hands on her hips.
The messy bun flops to one side, falling completely apart. She sighs again while untangling the elastic from the knots in her hair.
“Melanie wants me to enjoy the finer things in life,” I clarify. “I hate the idea of how much that room must cost, so I invited Lily to join me. She may as well enjoy it.”
Rachel’s eyes widen by a millimeter, but I catch the small shock. Then, she pulls the elastic band apart that she finally freed from the unruly mess of her hair, aims it at me, and hits me squarely in the chest with it.
“That’s nice of you,” she says.
This time I don’t control the furrowing of my brows. I allow them to scrunch together. “What was that?”
“What was what?” she asks with a shrug.
Her hair is now spilling over her shoulders, wild and free. I realize now that the messy bun wasn’t really messy at all. It had been controlling the mess.
“You just fired off an elastic band at me,” I say, not understanding why I’m having to explain what she had just done.
Adults do not shoot elastic bands at one another.
“Getting a shot in early, I guess,” she murmurs as she continues to pick through pieces of clothing.
I shake my head, deciding to ignore her childish antics and chalk it up to nerves.
“Do you need me to call in services to steam or press something for the forum?” I ask.
I hope she’ll take me up on the offer. Everything must be wrinkled by this sorting system of hers. I open the closet. The hangers are bare.
“What? Why?” Her voice shoots up an octave, as if what I just suggested is more absurd than wearing disheveled clothing in front of a thousand people.
She should want to look put together. She should want to take this opportunity very seriously.
“Why?” My voice drags out, as if I need to make sure each letter is enunciated clearly for her to understand. “Because this is a very serious event that requires you to look the part, Rachel.”
There’s a pause. A long pause. And I’m pretty sure her green eyes turn red. At least orange. Flames are eating at her irises.
“Do you not think I’m taking this seriously? Do you think everyone has to do exactly as you do to take anything seriously? Are you so naïve to believe that I don’t understand that this is a very important forum, and I still have over two hours to compose myself to be ready for this extremely, hugely vital event to keep your career alive?”
So, she went there. Making this more about me than about her. Part of me wonders if she even notices that she does this, and the other part of me is completely irritated that she does it.
“Keep my career alive? That’s cute. Real cute, Rachel.Youhave nothing to do with keeping my career alive. This book tour has my name on it. Not yours. And no, I don’t think you are taking this seriously. Not with your frilly, informal dresses. Not with your fanfiction that isn’t even serious work. It’s fiction about fiction. You can’t even write your own.”
And I regret those words even more than accidentally asking her out earlier. It's low. Even I know that. She can write her own.
“Get. Out.”
Her cheeks are flushed, and not in a soft blush, but in a way that makes me think she looks like a goddess of fire. The crimson of hercheeks matches her hair, extending her anger all around her as if fury was an aura, and she’s taken it on.
It’s gorgeous and terrifying at the same time.
“I didn’t mean that,” I say, trying to backpedal, but backpedaling feels more like tripping at the moment.
She points at the door.
