I pause before shoving the key into the lock, shooting off a text to Bentley.
We need to talk. My parents are THE WORST.
Staying at your place for a bit.
The whoosh of a sent message helps me relax, even though Bentley has been silent since Island Gate dropped. Not that I reached out in the past days either. Maybe I haven’t given her a chance to prove herself. Maybe she’s waiting for me to reach out to her for comfort. If she thought I needed space, that would be the kind thing to do.
A large majority of me doesn’t buy that, but it’s more comforting than the alternative: that I’ve always been a dormant torpedo poised to sink her shiny social submarine.
Regardless, she gave me the key with the express permission to come by and use her place whenever I needed to.
The need has never been stronger.
Her two-bedroom unit has a stunning view of the Brooklyn Bridge. The curtains are flung open, inviting in early afternoon light. There’s not a Christmas decoration in sight. I’m happy to smell the familiar lemon floor cleaner over the scent of cinnamon candles or baking treats. My nose needs a break from Christmas.
I leave my bag at the door and drop the key in the bowl before shooting off one final text:
Let me know if you need anything done while I’m here.
A phone chimes from the peacock-blue sofa. A sleepy Bentley shoots up and scares the shit out of me. When we lock eyes, we both scream.
“Jesus, Bee. What the fuck?” I clutch my chest, hoping my heart doesn’t switch to overload. The cloud of her presence is overwhelming. It’s been a while since we haven’t had a phone screen between us.
Wiping sleep from her eyes, she shakes her head. “You’re going to what-the-fuck me when you’re the one who just broke into my apartment unannounced?”
“I texted,” I say, holding up my phone while still holding my heart.
She checks. “So you did. Still. Knock much?”
“I thought you were supposed to still be in Aspen.”
She groans, standing. She sports a cropped hoodie, a pair of designer sweats, and her signature thick eyeliner. “I was. Not that it’s any of your business, but I got into a fight with my parents over the bajillion-carat, oval-cut, D-color diamond necklace from Tiffany I asked for and did not find under the tree last night,” she says. “I took the private helicopter back to prove a point.”
Ignoring her pettiness for a second, I strip off my coat and hang it by the door. She appears visibly peeved by the act, while she grabs a Voss from the fridge.
“I’m seriously so happy to see you,” I begin. “Everything has blown up, and I can’t stand to be alone right now. I need a place to stay.” I step further into the kitchen, hopeful, while she drinks, never breaking eye contact. “Can I get one of those? I’m parched.”
“No, you can’t,” she says, point-blank, unblinking.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not staying. In case you haven’t heard, you’re canceled, Matthew Douglas Prince. Hashtag PrinceaPaLOSER was trending for twenty-four hours. There’s absolutely no way in hell I can risk having people see you coming and going from the building, let alone be seen with you right now.” Her tone suggests this should’ve been obvious.
I huff out an incredulous breath. “Some kind of friend. What about our New Year’s Eve party?”
“Oh.” Bee makes a big show of thinking about it, even though I can tell her mind is already made up. “I made the executive decision to throw this one solo. I got all new invitations made. See?” From a pile on the counter, she hands me an envelope.
Once I pop the seal, the card bursts into a box, spewing confetti into the air with impressive velocity.
After it’s done spitting out silver and gold glitter, I notice it has nothing but an address, a time, and a dress code. The other sides of the box are artsy photos taken by an up-and-coming photographer whom Bentley was intimate with for a few months last summer before breaking up with him in Thailand and going on a bender.
If you didn’t know Bentley well enough, you’d have no idea it was her—a smooth, milky elbow on a lounge chair, black locks spilled along white, hot sand. There’s no mention of me at all. I’ve been erased.
“It was a super-last-minute decision, Matty Baby. Don’t be mad. It’s what’s best for the party,” she says. “You know how it is. The rise and fall of the party people. You’ll be back on the horse next year. I’m sure of it. But for now, you have to go.”
“You can’t be serious.” She’s nudging me toward the door.
“Unfortunately, I am.” There’s no irony in her voice. No mocking. She means this. To her, social perception is of the utmost importance. If she loses her crown, she loses everything.
