“It’s up to Adriana,” Pax said with a shrug. “She has things to figure out first.”
Significant looks ricocheted among the members of the crew.
“What?” Jean asked, giving up on deciphering their facial expressions. This was a group that had dramatic reactions to most topics of conversation, from “best fabric softener scent” to “near-death experiences on our last tour.”
“We want Adriana to be happy,” Jessica said. A chorus of nods affirmed this truth. “But at what cost? It’s the eternal question. Career or love?”
“And it’s not like happiness is guaranteed,” Pax chimed in. “How is it going to be any different this time? They have the same obstacles as before.”
Everyone had an opinion, voices climbing over each other as they discussed Adriana Asebedo’s love life. It was like the comments section on a fan website, only not mean. Jean couldn’t quite tell if they shipped Adriana and Charlie or not, because she was doing her best to tune out the details.
“What do you think? Knowing the other side of the story.” Jessica touched Jean’s knee.
That was an easy one:I think Adriana should leave, and Charlie should choose me.Jean couldn’t say that to Team Asebedo, so she pretended to be a neutral bystander. “As long as everyone involved is a consenting adult, where’s the harm?”
Here, she thought, answering her own question.I’m the injured party.
Sighing, she dragged herself off the plush banquette. “I’m going to go see if I can flag down a truck or something.”
“No.” Pax pointed at the seat Jean had just vacated. “Why get murdered and stashed in someone’s freezer when you could stay and watch a private concert by Adriana Asebedo and her amazing dancers?”
On cue, everyone in hearing range struck a pose.
“This is a super rare opportunity,” Jessica added, dropping the hands splayed on either side of her face. “I grant you the setting is a little weird, but cows are better than war criminals.”
“Gigs like this are usually for a baby oligarch’s Sweet Sixteen,” Pax translated, adding a fist-clenching fake cheer. “Woo-hoo! Let’s all celebrate the dictator’s great-niece.”
“Adriana would never.” Jessica pressed a hand to her heart.
“She has standards,” Pax affirmed. “Trust, many are the billionaires who’ve begged Adriana to play their sad little soiree.”
“We’re only doing this because of the personal connection.” Jessica leaned into Jean’s space. “Also, it’s going to be a historic occasion. You didn’t hear it from me, but Adrianamightlaunch a new single tonight.”
“Is it about beer?” Jean asked, only half joking.
Her new friends laughed. “It’s an Adriana song,” Pax told her. “You know it’s going to be aboutlove.”
It felt like Jean had downed two meatball subs with extra cheese instead of a protein bowl. Some of her internal discomfort must have shown on her face because Jessica sent Pax anaha!look.
“Bad breakup?” Jessica guessed.
Jean nodded.
“Are they going to be here tonight?”
“The odds are pretty high.”
She placed her hand over Jean’s. “Then it’s obvious what you need to do. And running away is not it.”
“For sure,” Pax agreed.
“So then—what?” Jean asked, glancing between them.
“Makeover montage,” they sang, before clapping at their own brilliance.
Jean let them mess with her hair and do her nails, but when they brought out the big guns—an eyeshadow palette the size of a picnic table, the airbrushing sprayer, body paints—Jean couldn’t be their Barbie any longer.
First she convinced Jessica to let her paint iridescent scales along her forehead and one cheek, after which Pax requested “something you’d find on an old Led Zeppelin album.” The next thing Jean knew, she was covering half of Adriana Asebedo’s crew in body art.
