The worst part is that Verity is on the cusp of retiring—the Parkinson’s tremor in her hand is noticeable to all now—and as kind and generous as she is, there is no way Elodie will keep her job when Jeanine takes over.
Dealing with the petty interactions feels like being in high schoolagain, Jeanine looking for any excuse to bring up Elodie’s lack of qualifications or express fake concern about how often she brings her child to work. Right now, Jeanine is in a tight-fitting chartreuse dress that shows off her tiny waist, and she fawns and gushes over the guests as if she is already the host. When it came to greeting Elodie, she brushed past her and blithely greeted someone else. The snub was so noticeable people stared. It was embarrassing.
The heat in her cheeks hasn’t quite cooled, and she swallows her entire glass of champagne. At least it’s beautiful on the balcony, the ocean a moody blue under the twilight sky, the marina below full of bright white yachts and catamarans and twinkling lights. It’s a reminder that there’s a whole world out there she will never see.
She has this: her garage, her dead-end suburb, her sagging mattress where she curls into a question mark in the dark and cries, her child who she is scared does not love her.
“I feel like you want another one of those.”
Elodie smooths her face into a reserved, polite smile, because she knows how to present herself to strangers.
He’s pretty; she notices this immediately. His eyes are the striking blue of overpolished jewels, his hair spun of mussy gold, and he’s just disheveled enough to be endearing—the rumpled button-down, the woven leather circling his wrist, the jeans that should have been dress pants in a glamorous place like this.
He holds out another flute of champagne with a bashful smile, and their fingertips touch as she takes it.
“That’s a nice accent,” she says. “Are you lost?”
“I stole it.” He leans against the balcony rail, his smile affable, yet there is a hopeful, shivering energy to him.
Oh, but he wants to impress her.
The flattery of it calms some of her poisonous agitation.
“I just thought,” he says, “of all the accents in the world, which is the coolest?”
“And you settled on American?” Elodie says with curated flatness. “Inspired.”
“Mistakes were clearly made. Should’ve stolen a sexy accent.” He takes a sip of his champagne and tries to look away casually, but his Adam’s apple bobs and he fumbles his glass.
He’sso nervous. She is delighted.
She knows how she looks in this little black dress, her height rendering it incredibly short, her legs long and toned from dance, her curls a dark waterfall down her back, glossy and thick and consuming. People have always whispered that there’s an addictive beauty to her, a hint of something otherworldly, and she’s pleased it’s still there.
“You teach at the studio?” he says.
“And you don’t,” Elodie says.
He rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. “I’m, um, here with family. Just in Australia for a visit. I’m out of place, aren’t I?”
“You and me both.” Elodie wishes she hadn’t offered him that sliver of herself, because he looks curious.
She drifts across the balcony, knowing she is falling into the same patterns she used on the boys at school—be beautiful, unreachable, unattainable, because then they willbeg—but she’s unable to stop herself.
He follows. “I don’t think I got your name.”
“I didn’t give it,” she says.
“Well, I’m Brendan January.”
“Nice to meet you, Brendan.”
“Still no name.” He’s fighting a smile because they’ve reached the end of the balcony and there’s nowhere else for her to go unless she returns to mingle inside.
She raises an eyebrow, her glass held up to hide the real smile dancing on her lips.
He tries to look indifferent. “I’m a huge fan of all the ballet stuff, by the way.”
“Really?” she says. “Name three ballerinas.”
