Page 35 of Filthy Rich

“It really is nothing,” she says. “The same kind of posts you’ve been seeing—nothing new.”

I hold out my hand.

“We need to go or we’ll be late.” She turns for the door.

I don’t move. “Just show me what you were glaring over.”

When she finally surrenders her phone with a sigh, it’s obvious. The post’s still open. It’s a movie-critic-turned-social-media-starlet, opining on the pros and cons of me and Patrice. There’s a massive, full frontal image of my burn, juxtaposed with the flawless face of one of the most beautiful movie stars of all time.

I do not look wonderful.

But what had Bea scowling, I’m sure, were the comments. One small scroll shows that public opinion has not been on my side. Besides the usual “optics don’t lie,” and “not the fugly one,” comments, some people are being truly awful.

Like, “Wonder what they’re paying him to date that.”

And, “Hope he’s getting hazard pay.”

Most of them are from men, which doesn’t make me feel better. Usually the women are the catty ones, but in this case, the men are probably more likely to be honest.

“It’s fine.” I hand the phone back to Bea and head for the door. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard most of my life.” I force a smile, not that she can see it. It’s good practice either way.

Bea trots to catch up to me. “He asked you out—he loves your face, just like I do.”

It would be nice if every single conversation didn’t revolve around it and people’s opinion of my worth didn’t always come down to it, but we don’t get to pick the world we live in. We just have to do our best in the one we have.

“Your hair looks amazing, by the way,” Bea says. “I always love your pin curls, but they look really perfect today.”

If only the 1940s look was actually in right now. . . It’s the hairstyle that covers the most surface area of my burn, so I’ve worn my hair like this for years. It doesn’t take long for us to reach the recording studio, and we manage to record two and a half songs before we run out of time.

“We’re nearly done,” Bea says. “A song and a half, pickups, and we’ll be finished.”

It’ll be nice to go home again, but it’s sort of lousy that Jake will surely have weeks left of filming after I go.

What’s wrong with me? Thinking about where he’ll be, like this might turn into something. I can be a real idiot. I decided last night that I’m just going to appreciate hanging out with Jake like I did the date to prom lined up by my dad. He found a really handsome, really smart guy—a kid of one of his friends—who took me. I knew the guy didn’t really like me. I knew he wasn’t my new boyfriend or anything. I enjoyed the evening for what it was.

Like I appreciate lilies—short-lived, and all the more special for it.

In ten years, when I look back, I’m sure that I’ll think about this the same way. My date with Jake Priest. Or if it goes well, maybe even my dates with Jake Priest. As long as I don’t expect more, I can’t be disappointed.

“Let’s go grab a drink,” Q says. He throws his long hair back over his shoulder. His head’s shaved on the left side, but the other side’s longer than mine. It makes us almost opposites. I cover my left side, and his is exposed.

“Not today,” Bea says. “Octavia has plans.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

Everyone starts to crow. “You have to tell us how it goes,” Morgan says. “Because Jake Priest.” She whistles. “He’s most girls’ dream.”

“Not mine.” Bea groans. “Gross.”

“Hey,” Morgan says. “We didn’t all grow up with him, alright?”

“We didn’t,” I say. “Thank goodness for that. I imagine he wasn’t quite the polished ladies’ man at ten years old that he is now.”

“Actually.” Bea chuckles. “Jake has always been the same as he is now. He’s always been charming, and he’s always had those dimples.”

“He didn’t suffer through an awkward stage?” I shake my head. “That’s just unfair.”

“Some people have all the luck,” Everett says.

We all turn to stare for just a moment—our bass player almost never talks, and when he does, it’s always about music. Those six words may be the first ones I’ve ever heard him utter that weren’t about a song.

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