“Thanks, Grandmother,” I whisper to the night, before turning and stepping back inside.
CHAPTER 40
Daisy
(FIVE YEARS AGO)
Dear Diary,
I’m officially a college dropout. I was failing too many classes. I’m not sure why school has always felt impossible. I want to figure out where I fit. Where I belong.
A few days ago, I got a present in the mail. It was a delicate gold watch. An antique, but it worked perfectly. The back was inscribed with one sentence.
You are meant for more.
I thought the watch was from Chase, but when I thanked him, he had no clue what I was talking about.
It’s become a touchstone. The sentence is my mantra. I look at the watch and remember that someday I’ll find my place. That I’m meant for more.
(NOW)
“Is this place real?” I gasp as I step into the atrium of Avery Woods’s palatial New York City apartment. Everywhere I look, I see sweeping views of Central Park.
“This way,” says the efficient assistant who greeted me as I got off an elevator that opened into the star’s airy but surprisingly cozy home.
I attempt to catch up with her long strides as I balance the dress and try not to stare too hard as I pass the living room. It features a long velvet couch that looks like it should belong to some ’70s era disco queen. The room has a large white piano in the corner, multiple guitars on stands, and gold records lining the walls. It’s fit for Avery: a pop goddess.
We walk through more rooms, each more stylish than the next. I wonder if we’ve disappeared into some magic portal where space has no meaning or end.
She opens double doors into a large room that I recognize as the mother ship. Many people say the kitchen is the heart of the home. But for me, it’s right here. We’ve entered somewhere holy. We need to speak with reverence.
It’s Avery Woods’s closet. But to call it a closet would do it a vast disservice. It’s a multiple-room extravaganza of fashion and fabulosity.
I try to tamp down my excitement. I repeat,be cool, be cool, be coolin my head.
But it’s useless.
“She’s here,” the assistant announces to the room in a bored tone.
A curvy woman with long platinum blond hair turns toward me, and I’m lost.
It’s her. Avery Woods. I swallow back a teen-girl squeal.
“Hi.” I wave awkwardly with the biggest, cheesiest smile. And then I close my eyes in pain. Because did I just awkwardly wave at Avery Woods?
But then she does the most amazing thing.
She awkwardly waves back. “Hi!” she says enthusiastically. “You must be Daisy Lane. Oh my gosh, you’re just as gorgeous as you are in the photos. I adore the dress you’re wearing. That color.”
“Oh wow. Thanks. I made it myself. Or, actually, I made part of it. I adapted an Alaia dress from the eighties. I toned down the shoulders because,eighties. And took up the hem. Made a few other tweaks.” I twirl to show off the dress. And then stop myself. I just twirled in front of Avery Woods.
She grins, her eyes shining. “Daisy, meet Talia. She’s my head stylist.”
“Hey,” Talia says. She’s the ultimate cool girl, dressed in a tailored black suit with dark, silky hair falling past her shoulders, dramatic makeup, and a flawless tawny complexion.
“We were just talking about the wardrobe concepts for my next music video,” Avery adds.
“A music video! Which song?”
