Page 93 of When Glitter Meets Gold

S: Jack, of course not! You’re important to me too

J: Call me when Amber leaves?

S: She’ll be at mine until late, you might be waiting a while

J: I don’t mind waiting. I’m always going to do that for you x

39

SARA

The night of the ball, Francis shows up at my apartment, greeting me shrilly with over-the-top air kisses, delighted I asked him to be my plus-one. An additional invite had arrived in my inbox sometime during the day, a gesture from Jack to make me feel like I wasn’t obliged to go as his date, I assume. Since Amber had a dirty weekend planned in some Wall Street bankers’ Upstate cabin, I invited Francis instead.

Jack ended up leaving for Seattle earlier than planned. Urgent business which demanded most of his attention. He still made time to call me, but I was either swamped at work, about to go to bed, or busy with Amber, making up for lost time this past year. It meant we still hadn’t straightened things out properly, which meant I couldn’t wait to see him tonight, so we could finally talk and get this stupid heaviness we’d both been carrying off our chests.

As part of the terms of being my plus-one, Francis hands me his payment; an ivory garment bag with a linen hanger poking from the top.

Our agreement is simple: I give him access to this fancyball where he’s convinced he’ll meet his future husband, and he gets to play fairy godmother by delivering me fabulous couture.

I unzip the bag, squealing when I see a pale pink dress made of elegant silk. It’s strapless, flows beautifully from the hips, and looks like it’ll pair flawlessly with my favorite sparkling Manolos.

“You did good, Francis.” I wink at him. “Where did this one come from?”

“Khalid obviously. It’s an Alaïa. Expensive and on loan, so be careful. If I so much as sniff bug spray anywhere near this…”

He looks at the dress longingly before shooting me a vexing stare.

Khalid’s one of Francis’s many hookups, who conveniently works in fashion PR where he has access to an array of gorgeous sample dresses no one will miss for a night or two.

I don’t take my eyes off the dress as I glide, in a dreamlike state, toward my bedroom. It’s the thing I adore most about fashion, how the mere act of piecing together a beautiful outfit has the ability to flip a shitty mood on its back. And right now, in the presence of this dress, I’m at peace.

As I slide the silk over my body, I clasp the final button and zip up the side. Standing on tiptoe, I marvel at the way the bodice wraps around my chest to make my breasts appear particularly perky, and where the silk parts to reveal a high slit that cuts up to my thigh. In a tasteful, classy way of course, being that this is the Hemmingvale ball for the love of God.

A prolonged gasp echoes behind me as Francis appears in the doorway, hands spread comically wide over his cheeks.

“How do I look?” I shrug, twisting to admire the dress in the mirror, swishing the material around my waist, watching it ripple like a waterfall of freshly plucked petals.

“Like you’re ready for a fucking ball.” Francis beams.

There is no place like New York. It’s a city that forbids you to feel isolated or out of place, because for every heartbreaking quarrel, peculiar hobby, or ridiculous phobia, a sea of others exist who are willing to climb to even greater heights to demonstrate how abundantly we all belong, quirks and all.

It’s a city that moves quickly, too hungry for life to soak in misery for any length of time. Opportunity exists down every avenue, and just when you think you might have seen it all, the curtain is pulled and a whole other world is revealed, ready to be devoured.

And when the splendor gets to be too much, too fast, too loud, an eye-watering sum in a yellow cab will snatch you away for the night until you catch your breath.

Scarsdale. A pocket of suburban, stately bliss an hour’s drive from the city.

Francis and I pull up to a charming estate where vines climb the pillars of a gleaming colonial mansion with tall, arched windows and sprawling, striped lawns.

The Hemmingvale estate is the former home of a diplomat who sold the property when the upkeep became too costly. Now it continues to host sparkling soirees, extravagant masquerade parties and so much more. Tonight, CEOs, directors, and investors from across the country assemble to raise money,spendmoney, and be merry for the night.

So, when I enter the grand hallway and see a familiarface who doesn’t belong to any mentioned category, I get a little confused.

“What’s she doing here?” I hiss under my breath as I spot Kandi in a tight turquoise dress with a swaying, feather trim. She links arms with a man I strain to make out until… “Wait, is that Drew?”

Francis places a hand across his chest, his features blazing with delight. “Oh my.”

A bolt of unease twists in my stomach. “Did you know she was coming?”

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