Her breathing not quite steady, Sloane sags against me. “I should go. Marina doesn’t make idle threats.”
“Wait. What would it mean? If I kept kissing you for another five…maybe ten minutes?” I ask.
Besides the biggest case of blue balls I’ve ever had.
She throws her head back and laughs, and it fills her entire body with a lightness I want to see again and again. “The last time I was late for one of these multi-model shows, Marina put so much setting spray in my hair, I had to take three showers that night to get it all out. And even then, it was still crunchy.”
“Ouch. You’d better get in there, sweetheart. And remember your promise.”
She squeezes my fingers, then traces a line across my palm with her thumb. The sensation makes me feel alive and whole, and even in this cocoon of never-ending silence, I know I’m not alone. Not anymore.
* * *
Sloane
From the moment I walk into the dressing room, personal privacy goes out the window. Most of the models are half naked, given that they all have a turn on the runway before me. As the Christmas Book cover model, I get top billing, but that means I have more time for my nerves to take over.
Thank God for Marina. In under ten minutes, she has my hair piled into a messy bun and starts on my makeup. The show runs for almost an hour—much longer than normal. Before every model’s appearance, one of theBeauty and Styleexecutives will introduce us and share a personal tidbit or two about our lives, and after the first three rotations, the conglomerate’s CEO has a thirty-minute speech during which Marina will have to completely redo our makeup and hair as we switch from day to evening looks.
I don’t know how Marina keeps everything straight given that her notes look like a doctor tried to scribble instructions while riding a roller coaster. But she always does.
“Tonight, you need to eye mask for at least an hour,” she chides, dabbing concealer on the dark circles. “Between the stress and whatever you and McMuscles are doing behind closed doors, you’re going to look like you have two black eyes tomorrow if you’re not careful.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, best friend forever,” I mutter. “I thought you were always supposed to be on my side?”
“I am.” She leans down to whisper in my ear. “I’m trying to helpsellthe whole relationship story.”
“Thank you.” Meeting her gaze in the mirror, I smile and try to match her hushed tone. “But it’s not a story. Not anymore.”
“Sloane!” Marina beams as she picks up her foundation sponge. “When this is all over, ” her expression sobers, “we’re going to have a nice long girls’ weekend where we can catch up on everything we haven’t talked about over the years.”
Shame crawls up the back of my neck, and I reach back and rub at the rough skin where Dimitri’s tattoo used to be. “I’d like that. I’m sorry I haven’t been a great friend.”
“Oh, hush. That is not what I meant. Eyes closed now, please.”
As Marina dusts my lids with gold, I think of all the times I deflected, answered with half-truths—or even flat-out lied to her—and suddenly, I’m close to tears again. Dammit. I’m neverthisemotional.
Because you never let yourself feel anything.
My inner voice has always told me the truth, even when I refused to listen.
“Sloane? Sweetie, take a deep breath for me. Right now,” Marina snaps. “You arenotallowed to cry on me. This is waterproof liner, but no one’s going to be able to see it if your eyes swell up.”
“I’m okay.” I reach up and clasp Marina’s hand on my shoulder as I count backwards from forty-seven, again. By the time I reach forty, I’m calm. “Really. Once this junket is over, everything’s going to change. It has to.”
* * *
Standing just behind the curtain,I try not to destroy the shimmering golden lip gloss Marina touched up just seconds ago.
Donna, the head of theBeauty and StyleChristmas Book selection committee, stands at the far end of the T-shaped runway at the microphone. “Our next model has been the global face of our brand for the past five years. Her poise, dedication, and passion are unmatched in the industry, and we’re so very proud to feature her on the cover of this year’s Christmas Book. Please welcome Sloane Sanders!”
The applause is enough to send my heart racing, but I school my expression into one of casual detachment as I stride slowly and confidently onto the stage. With one hand shoved into the pocket of the tailored “business” capris, the dark blue jacket reveals a fitted bralette in the same midnight linen.
Donna goes on and on about what I’m wearing—the designer, the material, how I can go from a business meeting to a night on the town simply by unbuttoning the jacket—and I reach the end of the runway, turn, pose, turn, and pose again, desperately wishing the lights weren’t so bright so I could see Griff.
But it’s no use, and when Donna concludes her little spiel, I offer up a demure smile, let a few more flashbulbs go off, and then make the long trip back up the stage until I’m safely back in the wings.
Jill—the young model with the caffeine pill habit—is waiting for her second turn, and she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet. “This isthe best!” she gushes, reaching out to capture my hand and give it a quick squeeze. “Don’t you just love every freaking minute?”
