“I might have to dance with him.”
“Who?” Phoebe asks, still on the phone.
“Him.”
“Boxy?”
“No,him. I might have to dance with him at Freddie’s wedding.”
“Doeshimhave a name?” she asks, then she clicks her tongue as if piecing together my inner monologue that’s along the lines ofAbort, abort, the mission.Do not attend your brother’s wedding because, more than likely, the maid of honor—that’s me—will have to dance with the best man. Save yourself!
“I can’t do it,” I whisper.
“Pippa, Freddie’s wedding is months away. We have plenty of time to prepare. Don’t worry about having to dance with Chase, talk to him, or anything right now. Focus on the present.”
That reminder helps settle the dust a little bit. Not future tripping is among my many rules.
“Could you please meet me tomorrow?” My tone is one turn on the dial before begging.
“Here’s what you’re going to do—” Reliably, my sister comes through with what she means to be encouraging instructions to help get me ready for tomorrow.
My mother has a chaise longue in her dressing room that would come in handy right now because I feel like I could collapse. Tomorrow? I can hardly think about tomorrow when I’ll have to see Chase Collins at Freddie’s wedding.
“How about we get ready and then go together? You can be my wing-woman,” I ask, doubling down.
“I’m up to my elbows in thesis research on the other side of the city.” Phoebe is a graduate student in digital forensic science at King’s College.
“That’s never stopped Mum from insisting you attend things before.”
Phoebe clears her throat. “She thinks I’m in Brussels. Please, pretty please, Princess Calliope Avington Twinklebelle, don’t tell her I’m here.”
“Have you been sleeping in the library?”
Phoebe doesn’t reply.
“I just don’t want to go,” I all but whine. “What if something happens?”
“I understand you need a minder at events like the Smythe’s party, but just watch where you’re going, hold your head high, and avoid liquids.”
“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”
“Pippa...”
“I know, I know. You need to get back to studying. It’s just that?—”
“You can do this. You’ve gone to swanky soirees countless times. You’re an etiquette teacher. You know how to hobnob.”
A laugh bubbles out of me at her word choice. Phoebe also commented that I need a minder. As in an escort, bodyguard, chaperone. All of the above. It’s not that I get into trouble. No, it typically finds me. Phoebe calls me the absent-minded professor. But my degree is in chemistry. Meanwhile, my head is in the clouds.
“Pippa, don’t flake out on them.”
“Are you calling me flakey?” I ask, fake-insulted.
“Not flakey, but definitely a biscuit.”
“I could go for one right now. Oooh. I bet I could make a biscuit-scented candle.”
“Pippa, go exfoliate. Then call me tomorrow when it’s time to shave your legs.”
