“Well, you’re doing a good job, then.”
I stuffed my phone back in my pocket without answering. My heart was thundering, and my hair had fallen out of its bun. I knew I was red-faced by the heat I felt on my cheeks, and the back of my shirt was damp with sweat. “I need a shower,” I announced, and I marched out of the kitchen without finishing the dishes. For once, my mother didn’t call anything out after me, and I was able to escape in peace.
I locked myself in the guest room and collapsed face-first on the bed. A groan slipped out of me along with a bit of drool that soaked into the floral-patterned comforter.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket felt like I was prodding at an unexploded land mine with a stick I found on the side of the road. I rolled onto my back and unlocked it, staring at Callum’s last message. No, I hadn’t told him I was out of town. Why would I?
And why did it feel like I’d been naughty for not clearing with him first? Andwhy on Earthdid I like this feeling?
My fingers went on a journey across my screen again, and I hit send before I could overthink it. Because despite everything, it felt too good to talk to him. I was an addict, and he was my fix.
DEENA
You enjoyed that, didn’t you?
CALLUM
Immensely.
DEENA
I’m blocking you now.
CALLUM
Try it and see what happens, Deena.
I bit my bottom lip, because even now—even after all that—he turned me the hell on. I couldn’t keep doing this. The more contact I had with him, the more it felt like I was unraveling. In a few quick taps, his number was blocked again.
Relief warred with disappointment inside me, but this was the right thing to do. After scrubbing my face and unpacking my bag, I felt a little better. I refocused on my plan: make it through this weekend and then go back to my regular life with all its mundane, all-consuming problems.
Keep trudging. Keep paying off debt. Keep surviving.
And most importantly, ignore the temptation of talking to Callum Frost.
NINE
DEENA
The dressmy mother got for me wasn’tbad, exactly, but it wasn’t my style. I went for interesting cuts and solid colors, and this dress was…not that. It would fit right in this evening, though. Much more than the black midi dress I’d brought—the one I’d worn on my disastrous date with Mr. Podcast.
I sat on my bed, my hair wet from my shower, and looked at the dress she’d hung from the top of the closet door. The baby pink fabric wouldn’t look bad on my skin tone, but it wasn’t a shade I would have chosen for myself. And I definitely wouldn’t have chosen so much bedazzling. Straps held up the scooped neckline of a boned, structured top, and the satin skirt was overlaid with a diaphanous, crystal-encrusted overskirt. To finish it off, the waist was embellished with a perfect pink bow.
Standing up off the bed, I grabbed the cushioned, satiny coat hanger and turned the dress around. The back dipped low—almost as low as the skirt’s waistband—so I wouldn’t be able to wear a bra. Wonderful.
I could wear my black dress. Pulling open the closet door, Igrabbed my black dress from inside and laid both garments down on the bed.
Black would be more comfortable, but it would invite comments and criticism. It also wasn’t black tie—I didn’t own any floor-length gowns that were—so it wasn’t exactly event-appropriate. Pink would be fine, and it would keep my mother happy. Keep her feeling like she had some control over me.
I chewed the inside of my cheek and reminded myself that the goal was to make it through the weekend. Even though Ifeltlike I’d reverted back to an angry, hormonal teen as soon as I set foot on my parents’ property, I was still a rational adult. I could wear an event-appropriate dress that I wouldn’t have bought for myself just for the sake of peace. My own peace and my parents’. It was their anniversary party, after all.
Resigned to a future where I was stuffed into a pink princess dress with lots of crystal embellishments, I got my hair dryer out and gave myself a blowout. With my hair in Velcro rollers, I did my makeup carefully. The familiar motions eased some of my nervousness. I dabbed on my concealer, took my time with my eyeshadow, and finally brushed on my mascara. Some of the tension in my body dissipated.
The event would be fine, and I would congratulate my parents, tolerate whatever criticism they dished my way, and then in the morning I would get on a plane and go back to my life. Everything would be okay.
By the time I’d taken the rollers out and brushed out the curls, my mother was calling my name from downstairs.
“Almost ready!” I yelled back. Then I turned back to the bed, took a deep breath, and grabbed the pink dress.
