I have more important things to do than angst about whether or not a man I’ve never met in person is second-guessing our dynamic.
Alder slows beside her and deposits me at her side with a slight bow. “I’m sure you two have much to catch up on and would prefer to do so without me present.”
He turns to Gemma, brushes an errant curl from her cheek, and murmurs something in her ear that makes her blush like a summer sunset. Then he kisses her hand, gives her a wink, and vanishes into the crush of the crowd like a very well-dressed mirage.
“Umm, excuse me,” I say, mouth open as I recover from mild whiplash. “When did Mr. Emotionally Stunted turn into Prince Freaking Charming?”
Gemma’s blush deepens. “I havea lotto tell you. But first—” She wraps me in a hug that squeezes the sarcasm right out of me.
I return it with gusto, a soft little exhale escaping my chest.
“I missed you,” she says as we pull apart.
“I missed you too.” My smile wobbles as I motion around us, a sweeping gesture that translates roughly towhat the actual hell, Gemma?!“I mean, we usually talk at least once a day. And then I don’t hear from you for two weeks, and when I do—”
“I know. I know.” She grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and offers me one.
I shake my head. This green juice bottle is practically glued to my palm by a thin film of sweat. “You’re okay, right, Gem?”
Gemma sets both flutes on the closest cocktail table and turns back to me with a soft smile. “Yeah.” Her eyes gloss over with tears, a full-to-the-brim joy I haven’t seen on her face in a long time. “I amunbelievablyokay.”
“And everything with Alder…?” I ask carefully, watching her expression for the smallest twitch, flinch, or cringe—any sign that I should throw a drink in his face and then run him over with one of the valeted sports cars.
She takes a deep breath and brushes an escaped tear from her cheek. “Is perfect,” she says. “He’sperfect.”
“Good.”
And I mean it. I do. Well, I want to mean it. But it’s hard not to feel like the only person still stuck in the opening act of her rom-com while everyone else is already well into their glow-up montage.
But tonight, I’m pulling it together. Gemma’s back. I’m off my couch, wearing real clothes and a full face of makeup. All I need is one good night. One little spark. A reminder that my story is still unfolding.
And something to help me forget that, against my better judgment, I inched closer to being a very tiny bit emotionally naked with Declan. A man I’ve never actually met and now probably never will.
I set my phone face down on the table and dip a hand into my purse until my fingers brush the familiar edge of rose quartz. A talisman against heartbreak. A way to hold myself together when I start to come apart.
However, there’s still hope for me yet. I mean, maybe my own two-week glow-up starts right now.
“You know…” Gemma says, sipping her champagne, a secretive little grin creeping across her face.
“You didn’t go drunk shopping and order a bunch of those creepy, toothed monster key chains again, did you?” I tease, because I’ve seen that smile many times. Usually right before we’re reading a website’s fine print about returns.
“God no. I am never getting online after two drinks again.”
We both laugh, the sound slipping easily into the familiar groove of ten years’ worth of inside jokes.
“No,” she says, still smiling. “You were right when you called him Prince Charming.”
I follow her gaze across the room to Alder, whotowers above the crowd with his blue eyes, golden hair, and devastating cheekbones. He looks like the live-action reboot of every animated prince who ever twirled a princess in a castle ballroom.
“He’s definitely got the whole original-Disney-hero thing going for him.”
And, okay, IknowI don’t need a man to save me. I light a candle every morning before work to fortify myself against emails and capitalism and to remind myself that I’m a feminist with a full-time job and a high-yield savings account I opened during a full moon. The black tourmaline on my coffee table tells me that I know how to rescue myself. But being whisked off my feet by a handsome billionaire wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
Not that it’s an option. In order to be saved by Prince Charming, I’d have to make myself completely emotionally available. Possibly even open to true love.
No thank you.
I’ve got enough to juggle just keeping up with the rituals that numb the panic long enough for me to move one foot in front of the other.
