“Lunch special,” we both say at the same time. His wide grin matches my own, and I feel a sort of neighborly kinship with him.
“Are you going to the party tonight?” he asks. “On the fifth floor?”
The fifth floor has only two units, and each one is twice the size of my apartment. Mr. Barnes lives in 5B, and according to Mrs. Greene, he was a famous songwriter. Apparently he throws an annual, themed Christmas party and invites everyone in the building. My guess is that this is also an effort to appease the residents so they don’t complainabout the noise, but Mrs. Greene says it’s always a lot of fun. This year’s theme is Only Santas in the Building.
“I’m planning to go,” I say, and then take a leap. “Will you be there?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” I’m probably imagining the warmth in his eyes, especially since he steps aside a second later. “I better let you go. See you later, Evie.”
I mutter goodbye and trot down the stairs, swallowing back a groan. Why the hell do I always have to look like such a train wreck when I run into him?
Hmm, maybe because I’m depressed and grieving and my only coping mechanism is to drown myself in work? Just a thought!
On the second floor, I stop at 2C and knock, but Mrs. Greene doesn’t answer. I figure she’s probably out getting her hair or nails done before the party tonight. She’s seventy-eight and resembles Nichelle Nichols ofStar Trekfame. I have never seen her looking anything less than stunning. She has a penchant for jewel tones and statement pieces, and her makeup and hair are always just so.
As for me? I’m thirty-one and can best be described as “cute.” An ex-boyfriend once called me a “sexy chipmunk” and actually meant it as a compliment. I get carded every single time I buy liquor, and when the clerks check the year on my ID, I get varying expressions of disbelief.
With a little primping, I can certainly pull off “pretty.” But tonight, I want to feel more than pretty. I want to feel like a knockout. A bombshell. A ten out of ten.
I want to feel as confident and badass as Starsong.
I might not have the power of flight, but I have luxury-brand mascara and a forty-dollar tube of red lipstick, and that’s nearly as good.
The last two times I’ve run into Theo, I’ve been at my worst. This party is my chance to show him—and myself—that I’m not just a sweats-clad cave dweller with dirty hair, endless deadlines, and a tragic backstory.
It’s time to take charge of my own narrative. Tonight, I’m going to blow Theo’s mind.
Chapter Three
There’s no ornament waiting for me when I get back, and I take that to mean Mrs. Greene is still out. No matter. I’ll see her at the party, and I can thank her then.
I sit at my round two-seater dining table and video chat my sister, April, while I dig into my chicken pad thai.
“I need advice,” I tell her when she picks up.
“My favorite words,” she says, then yells to the side, “Don’t break that!”
Sounds like my nephews are getting into trouble, as usual.
April is forty and sort of like my second mother. She’s also my best friend, which didn’t happen until around ten years ago or so. She lives in Philly with her husband and their two sons. The boys think it’sso coolthat theirtíaillustrates comic books, and they tell all their elementary school friends.
“Did you finish your pages?” April asks once she’s done hollering at the boys.
“I turned them in bright and early. Already got a confirmation from the editor.”
“Congrats! Does this mean you finally get to take a break?”
“For the next couple weeks. Then I get the script for another project in the New Year.”
“Hmm.” April, who works as an occupational therapist, has very specific views on my work-life balance, or lack thereof.
“Anyway, that’s not why I called,” I say before April can launch into a lecture. “This is about Theo.”
April’s dark-brown eyes, nearly identical to mine, narrow. We definitely look like sisters, with the same honey-tanned skin and high cheekbones, although her hair is curly while mine is straight, and I have freckles across my nose that make me look perpetually twelve years old.
“What do I always say?” she asks in a tone that sounds just like our mother.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t shit where you eat.”
