IKR
For some reason, the thought of being with John around my family makes me nervous. Johnny did say that by the time we’re in Cleveland, this arrangement might feel real. But I’m worried that my family will be able to tell it isn’t, and by then we’ll both be tired of pretending it is. Unless it is real and we’re both pretending it isn’t? Or one of us is? I’m not sure who.
I might need to hydromassage my lady parts again before I spin out.
Just as I’m about to put my phone down so I can turn on the jets again, I get a notification that Julian has sent me a message on Instagram.
JULIAN
I’m free to meet up. Let me know your schedule.
I lower myself deeper under water, as if I can hide from him. It takes me a minute to realize he saw my Instagram post. This building, which I recall John described assick, is in fact a luxury tower and an architectural landmark. There’s a big, round, mirrored stainless-steel sculpture outside of it, and I asked a stranger to hold my phone to take a video of me dancing in front of it. I’ll edit it into a vlog later, but I already posted a still of it on Instagram. And I forgot that my account has a location stamp on it.
For the first time ever, I have absolutely no interest in seeing Julian.
Surely if he’s seen my recent posts, he knows I’m with John.
Or is itthatobvious to everyone that this isn’t a real relationship?
I’m so confused.
It’s difficult for my brain to catch up to my body, I suppose. John Brandt has gone fromBrother’s Annoying Friend I Want to PunchtoPerson I Enjoy Going to Bed and Waking Up with Despite Still Sometimes Wanting to Punch Him. My body has accepted it since I first felt his hungry mouth all over me. This feels real. Therefore, it is real. But the voice of reason in my head is all hand on her hip, wagging her finger at me:Girl. You haven’t survived an entire month with him yet. You needto calm the F down.And then some calm, quiet inner voice reminds me that I have known Johnny for so much longer than a week.
It’s like when I was learning fouetté turns in ballet class a decade ago—I struggled with these repeated pirouettes forever, it seemed. They eluded and terrified me, and I hated doing them. Then, all of a sudden, I nailed it, and it became my favorite move. Is that the secret to dealing with Johnny? Practice, practice, practice?
I am a ballerina, after all. I’ve forgotten who I am. I’ve forgotten my intention when I agreed to this in the first place. I get to have sex with this man, and I only have topretendto be his girlfriend! This is literally the ideal situation for me.
After celebrating my emotional breakthrough with more intimate hydromassage therapy, I spend an hour getting ready for the gala event. I’m wearing the royal-blue evening gown Iris got for me. I brought a pair of pale-pink Louboutin open-toe stiletto pumps that I got secondhand a few years ago and have only worn once. I usually wear my hair up in a messy or tight bun or down and naturally wavy. Tonight, I’m straightening it with an iron. I lotion up every inch of my skin and apply my lipstick with a lipstick brush. I even apply eyelash extensions, because this is Manhattan. I’ll be there representing John, who will be representing his new foundation, and there will be some red-carpet action.
And also, I want John to have a nonstop boner as soon as he sees me—is that so wrong?
My phone dings, and I expect it to be a text from Callie or Milo, but it’s Julian.
JULIAN
Hey babe, where are you? Can’t wait to see you.
He has never called me “babe” before. Ever.
I type out:
Hi! I’m in town with a friend, and we have a really tight schedule. Sorry I won’t be able to see you this time!
Friendly without being flirtatious, to the point, and it doesn’t leave room for misinterpretation or discussion. Send!
Immediate reply.
JULIAN
Cool. Let me know if you have time to grab a drink tonight.
Um. No.
I don’t respond because John will be back any minute and because—gross. I am starting to see why everyone thinks he’s kind of a dirtbag.
When I open the bathroom door, I nearly scream because John is in the bedroom, and I had no idea he had returned. He’s already dressed in his tuxedo. He shuts the closet door and turns around. I lean against the doorframe, trying to look as casual as possible in fake eyelashes and the most expensive dress and shoes I’ve ever owned.
I completely forget my plan to look boner-inducing, because he is so handsome in a tux that I also forget to breathe and stand up straight. I think my spine has dissolved. I haven’t felt butterflies in my stomach since I was about eight, and they werealways ballet related. I have to hold on to the doorframe for support.
