“She is going to kill him,” Maria announces.
“The goal is not homicide,” I say, my voice coming out a little higher than usual.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the girl in the mirror who looks like she knows something I don’t.
“Okay,” Maria says briskly again. “Are you meeting him there, or is he picking you up?”
“He is picking me up,” I say before I can stop the tiny pleasure that runs through me like heat. “We are going to arrive at five forty-five instead of six so we can avoid the crowd at the entrance. I told him I would send wardrobe guidelines and then immediately told myself to get a grip.”
“Send them. If control helps, use it,” Tiff says. “Thegoal is not to become a different person, but to be yourself with less panic.”
“Less panic,” I repeat as if it is something you can measure with a spoon. “I’ll do my best.”
“We love you,” Maria says suddenly, the joke moving aside for the feeling that always sits beneath it. “Call if you need an extraction. I will climb a hedge in stilettos.”
“She will, and I will film it for legal reasons,” Tiff responds with a giggle.
I laugh and then swallow it because there is a lump forming behind it that wants to be something else. “Thank you for staying on the phone while I moved the same shoes around the room five times.”
“Anytime,” Tiff says. “Text us when you pick a lipstick.”
“Don’t text. Send us a thirst trap. Not for him. He gets the wholesome version,” Maria says.
“Goodnight,” I say with a smile that reaches my eyes.
They both tell me goodnight and hang up, and the quiet that returns is different from the one before. Instead of taking the dress off, I sit still for a minute and practice breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for six, the way my therapist taught me when I said anxiety felt like a fist closing around the center of my ribs. The dress yields under my palms. The necklace warms on my skin. I count until my shoulders drop an inch and my jaw unhooks.
Then I move because this is what I can do. I pull my laptop toward me and open the spreadsheet. The tabs line up like a row of tiny doors.Events. Wardrobe. Talking Points. Crisis.I click on theEventstab and scroll through the timeline until I reachDate #1: Charity Gala.UnderObjective, I already wrote:Establish chemistry without scandal. UnderRisks,I added earlier:Forget it is fake. I add a third line:Unplanned contact.Avoid closed spaces without a camera plan.My fingers pause before adding a fourth:Obstacles.If emotions interfere, re-center on purpose. Repeat aloud if needed.
Then, I move to theTalking Pointstab and find the bullets are neat and impersonal. I read them out loud until my voice stops shaking and then adjust. Cut the phrases that taste like a lie in my mouth. Replace them with one that tastes like water. I build the evening like a series of stones across a river and tell myself I can step from one to the next without falling in.
I move to theWardrobetab next and typeEmerald dressin the cell next to my name. Next toKyle,I typenavy suit, white shirt, no tie, pocket square to matchand then close my eyes because I can see him in it. The exact angle of his smile when he sees me for the first time and how it will make my throat do the thing it does when I want to be brave, and instead, I am only a person.
Moving on to theCrisistab, I keep the language simple.If a reporter crosses a line, freeze the smile andpivot to Cooper’s charity. If someone asks about origins, lean on “mutual respect” and “time spent getting to know one another.” If a photo leaks with a bad angle, post a better one before it trends.At the bottom of the spreadsheet, I write:If I start to panic, name five things I can see, four I can touch, three I can hear, two I can smell, one I can taste.I am not sure whether the taste will be guilt or hope.
After I finish with everything, I hit save and open a new document to draft a caption for the team account we can approve in the morning.A night in support of our community. Proud to show up together for a cause that matters.I try another version that sounds less like a poster. I settle on a third that sounds like anything except calm.
The apartment clock ticks toward eleven. The candles have burned down to little circles of wax, and I blow them out, watching the smoke unwind into the air. I pull the emerald green dress off and hang it on the outside of the closet where I can see it. It looks like a decision made by a person who will follow through.
The phone buzzes again. Not the group chat this time. A single text from the last person I want to talk to right now.
Kyle
You don’t have to send wardrobe. I’ll figure it out.
I stare at the screen long enough to count to twenty.I do not send the controlling text I drafted in my head five hours ago about color harmony and silhouettes. I type something else instead.
I’m wearing emerald green. It will photograph nicely against navy.
A dot appears. Disappears. Reappears.
Kyle
Make it blue.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and look at the closet door where the dress hangs like it could answer for me.
Why?
