Blaire Alexander ruined my life.
Blaire Monroe can kiss my ass.
And then I was angry at myself for the first instinct. Then I was angry with her for producing it. Then I was angry at her for just standing there with her eyeliner down her face, looking like a person I didn't want to feel anything about. Then, I opened my mouth and what came out was —that.
Get your shit together, Mrs. Monroe.
The name. I don't know why I keep doing that with her name. It comes out wrong every time, weighted, and I can't stop it.
Now I am stopped between floors in my own elevator feeling like I've kicked something that didn't deserve it.
Which she did. Deserve it. She absolutely deserves whatever version of difficult I decide to be.
I just — thecrying.
I press the button. The elevator starts moving again.
Jenn looks up from her seat when the doors open and smiles. She looks beautiful and uncomplicated and like someone who has never once detonated anything in my life.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Yeah,"
I am not ready.
I follow her out the door, anyway.
I open the car door for her and she climbs in. The dress is — it's a lot of dress. Or not enough of one, depending on your perspective. Her ass is on full display as she scoots across the seat. The fabric leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, and she’ll get no complaints out of me.
The list Blaire sent over had eight options — all public, all frequented by enough recognizable faces that the paparazzi treat the surrounding blocks like an office. Strategic visibility, whichis the whole point of tonight. Well, not originally. Two birds, one stone, I guess.
Jenn is talking about something. The restaurant, I think. Or the neighborhood. I catch every third word because I am looking at her red dress under the interior car light and doing math I should not be doing.
"So, what's your underwear situation?"
Jenn stops talking.
Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens.
I read the room. I adjust. "It's just — the dress is uh, very tight. And you bent over getting in, and there were no lines." I gesture vaguely at the relevant geography. "So, I wasn't sure if you were—"
I should stop talking.
"And your nipples are just — they're out there. Both of them. Which is fine, obviously. I'm just—" I gesture again, differently, which does not help. "I wear boxer briefs personally. I feel like it keeps everything where it's supposed to be. Contained. You know."
Jenn stares at me.
The driver clears his throat and rolls up the partition.
"I mean structurally," I continue, sadly. "From a structural standpoint."
The car is silent.
I look out the window at the passing street and make a decision that I am done talking for the foreseeable future and will simply sit here quietly and let the city go by until we arrive somewhere I can order a goddamn drink.
"Are you nervous?" Jenn asks.
I look at her.
