She nods, pursing her meticulously painted red lips. “Hmm.”
“What is ‘hmm’?”
“I haven’t seen Jake in weeks. No one has. I heard he’s been holed up in his hotel room. Now I know why.” She shakes her head slowly. “For reasons I’ll never understand, that boy is head over heels in love with you.” Her tone is as condescending as ever, but there’s a tiny smile playing in the corner of her lips. “Anyway, I thought you should know the truth. Because if someone as amazing as Jake Taylor likes you, you must be a pretty decent human being, too.”
Madison stands up, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her dress.
“Well.” She sniffs. “I’d better get going. My driver is parked out front, and that bootleg bodyguard you call a doorman threatened to call the police if I wasn’t back downstairs in ten minutes.”
Despite the hurricane of emotions barreling through my chest, I can’t help but smile. Lionel truly is one of a kind.
Madison slips on a pair of dark sunglasses and makes an exaggerated display of sashaying through the boxes. After stepping through the doorway, she turns back to look at me.
“Just think about what I said, okay?”
Then she pulls the door shut, leaving me behind in a cloud of perfume to sort through a jumble of feelings growing more complicated by the minute.
Well. There goes my fucking closure.
27
ONE OF THE THINGSI was most looking forward to as a career chef was never needing to make New Year’s Eve plans again. It’s my least favorite holiday, one that’s laden with entirely too much pressure and an expectation to stay up way later than I prefer to. If I were still gainfully employed, I would have had a perfect excuse to get out of plans: Olive & Pomegranate is famous for their New Year’s Eve parties, which feature a four-course dinner menu, a live countdown, and even a champagne toast. Unfortunately, I now have no excuse to turn down Chloe’s invitation to her friend Luca’s New Year’s Eve party. Luckily, I’ve convinced Mia to come with me, on the promise of free booze.
It’s nearly quarter to ten when we arrive at Luca’s Chelsea apartment. Mia’s dressed in her usual jeans and leather jacket, and I’m wearing the same thigh-skimming black dress I pull out of my closet every New Year’s Eve. Ali hasn’t arrived yet, so I’m relieved when Chloe, the only other person I’ll know here, is waiting for me by the door when I arrive. She looks as stunning as always, wearing a silver sequin wrap dress paired with delicate strappy heels, and clutching a vodka soda in her manicured hand.
“Hey, babe,” she says, leaning in for a cheek kiss. “I’m so glad you came. And look, you got a manicure!” She lifts my right handin hers to study the glossy red polish. My heart swells with a mix of emotions as I follow her gaze. I nearly lost my nerve the first time I stepped through Diva Darlings’ glass doors, the smell of acetone immediately flooding my chest with memories of my mom. But as the weeks have gone on, being there has made me feel closer to her; best of all, my weekly appointments have helped me kick my nail-biting habit once and for all.
“Chloe, this is Mia. Mia, Chloe.”
Chloe shifts her attention to Mia. Her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush pink. “I’m sorry.You’reMia?”
Mia smirks, her eyes taking a leisurely perusal of Chloe’s dress. “In the flesh, baby.”
The two of them stare at each other for a few moments before I clear my throat.
“Oh, right.” Chloe’s voice is uncharacteristically flustered. “Come in, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Mia excuses herself to get a drink while Chloe links her arm through mine and swings me around the room, occasionally peeking over her shoulder to sneak covert glances at Mia. She introduces me to our host, Luca, who I learn is a PR assistant at Tory Burch.
Luca’s mouth droops into a frown as he looks me up and down.
“Honey, I didn’t think it was possible, but your outfit is suffering from depression,” he declares.
“Babe! Remember what I told you? We’re not discussing Lexi’s outfit or her sadness this evening, because this is ahappyoccasion, and she has just been through a rough time, remember?” Chloe’s voice is imploring at the end, and Luca’s face changes as he registers that I’mthatsad friend. Straightening, he attempts to recalibrate, his eyes blinking rapidly behind his clear Warby Parker frames.
“Oh, right. Of course!” he says. “Let me get you a glass of champagne.” For the next half an hour, I try my best to socialize, but it’s hard to summon the energy. Mia and Chloe are chatting animatedly by the bar, and I don’t know anyone else here. By ten thirty,I’m slouched in the corner of Luca’s black leather sofa, taking hearty swallows from the bottle of tequila I grabbed off the bar and engaging in a stare-down with his creepy, hairless chihuahua.
One of the other guests, a tall guy with a thick, auburn beard and a man bun, darts in front of the sofa, grabbing the remote off the coffee table and shouting something about not wanting to miss Olivia Rodrigo’s performance onNew Year’s Rockin’ Eve. When the image of Times Square fills the screen a few seconds later, my heart skips a beat. I try and reassure myself that I probably missed Jake’s performance—after all, the show started two hours ago—but then the camera pans back to the stage, and there he is, sandwiched between Seacrest and his cohost, Trixie, the star of some new Freeform show about vampire sorority girls.
Seacrest is, of course, beaming. “Welcome back toNew Year’s Rockin’ Eve!” he declares, as Trixie bounces up and down, blowing on her gloved hands and rubbing them together. “We’re coming to you live from Times Square, where we’re joined by one of this year’s hottest musical sensations, Jake Taylor!”
It’s been two months since I’ve seen Jake, and the very first thing I notice is how sad his eyes look. It’s a detail that’s probably imperceptible to anyone else—in his skinny dark jeans, white tee, and brown leather jacket, he’s a portrait of the perfect pop-rock star. He’s smiling, but it’s his polite TV smile, the one that doesn’t reach his eyes. Nothing more than a mask. His dimple lies dormant in his cheek and his chocolate-brown eyes are flat, with no trace of their usual luster. He’s doing his best to hold it together for the cameras, but I see right through the act. I feel a sharp pang of sympathy and hate myself for it.
Seacrest is bundled up in a black coat, plaid scarf, and earmuffs, but Jake’s only protection against the chill is a navy beanie and gloves. Poor Jake. He hates the cold. If it were up to him, he’d be up onstage wrapped in a down comforter. The man just isn’t built for New York weather.
“So, Jake. It’s been an epic year for you, man. We’re all looking forward to hearing you sing for us tonight.”
Jake’s smile evaporates. He drops his gaze to the ground, nodding.
