“So they never fight or argue?”
“Of course they do. But it never lasts long—and trust me, they love making up.” I grimaced. “They love it way too much.”
She burst out laughing. “How long have they been married?”
“A billion years.” I chuckled. “Seriously, like twenty-six, I think.”
“Twenty-six years? Sounds like a fairy tale.”
“How long have your parents been married?” I asked. Shehadn’t mentioned them once. Nothing about siblings or cousins, aunts and uncles.
She traced over my knuckles, not quite meeting my eye. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to think less of me?”
“I’m not going to think less of you. No matter what you tell me.” Every layer she peeled back felt like an invitation into a world she didn’t show anyone else, and I couldn’t get enough.
“You have to promise not to tell anyone, okay?”
My stomach twisted, my mind spinning in all kinds of directions. None of them good. “I promise.”
“Okay. Here goes…” She drew a breath. “I don’t know who my dad is,” she whispered.
I waited, sure there had to be more. “But you talk about your dad all the time in your interviews.”
She frowned. “It’s all fabricated. My whole backstory. My parents. Their marriage. My upbringing. My name isn’t even Juliette Serrant. It’s Julie. Julie Margot Skinner.”
I studied her face, waiting for the smile that said she was kidding. Five seconds of silence passed. She was serious.
Holy…
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I rolled off her. I pulled her up to a seated position. “What parts are made up? Boarding school in France?”
“Made up. I actually went to four different high schools.” She looked away. “I never even graduated.”
She never graduated?“Did you get your GED?”
“No.”
“Prom queen?” That had to be true. If she’d been at Seddledowne High, she definitely would’ve won—Prom Queen, Homecoming Queen, all the queens, all the years. No contest.
“I didn’t even go to prom,” she said.
My mouth fell open. “I know you’re crappin’ me now. There’s no way you didn’t get asked.” If she’d been at my school, we would’ve been brawling in the parking lot over who was going to ask her.
“Oh, I got asked. At least my junior year.”
“Did you say yes?”
“I did.” She winced like she didn’t want to tell me. “But by the time the dance rolled around, I’d moved. So I didn’t get to go.”
I shook my head. “But there are photos of you with a crown on your head, and you look smokin’ hot.”
“They’re photoshopped. That guy I’m with doesn’t even exist. He’s AI.”
I tried to keep the disbelief off my face, but I felt like I was on a rope bridge, and each confession knocked another board loose under my feet, leaving me swaying over empty space.
“Your mom didn’t give up a modeling career for motherhood?” I asked.
“Crackhead who overdosed when I was ten—catapulting me headfirst into the foster care system, where I would spend the next two thousand, five hundred, and twenty-seven days being moved from home to home, until I emancipated myself at the age of seventeen.”
