Page 65 of With a Cherry On Top

“About what?” I ask, jolted back to the present moment as we weave through the lingering crowd.

“The music! The concert—the band?” Charlotte throws her hands up like it should be obvious.

“Oh. Yeah, it was . . . great.”

She halts abruptly, making me nearly crash into her. “You hated it!”

“I...” Her mouth curves into a contagious smile, and before I know it, I’m smirking too. “Nothatedit, no. It’s just not my style, I guess.”

“What’s your style then?”

I scratch the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like I’m about to be judged. “Well...I like Carnal Sins.”

She nods. “Oh, yeah. That band from the 1900s.”

Ouch.

“What?” she asks when I fight a chortle. “What did I say?”

“Nothing. You just made me feel a million years old.”

She shrugs. “What else?”

“‘Let It Go’ is a big hit at home.”

She gasps dramatically. “‘Baby Shark’?”

I throw my head back. “Thank god Sadie’s over that shit. Most difficult summer of my life.”

Her laughter echoes in the cool night air, and for a second, I let myself enjoy this—the lightness, the easy back and forth. It’s rare. Too rare.

We push past a few more people before finally stepping into the parking lot. Before I can point out where I parked, I spot a corn dog stand a few feet away and remember she missed dinner. We both did.

I gesture toward it. “Let’s get some food.”

She follows my gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. “Corn dogs?”

“Yeah. You know, the gross sausage covered in a greasy crust. You said you wanted one, didn’t you?”

She stares at the stand like she’s looking at a mirage in the middle of the desert. “I’ve wanted one for ten years, since I started modeling.”

I pause. She started modeling at thirteen? Is that even legal?

Instead of voicing that thought, I nod toward the stand. “You had pizza the other night, and you survived just fine.”

She hesitates, and judging by the way she’s staring at the stand like it holds some kind of moral dilemma, she might need some encouragement.

I take a step forward, and after a beat, she follows, a little skip in her step. It’s such a small thing, but the sight of it tugs at my heart. Excitement over a damn corn dog.

We step into line, sandwiched between loud drunks. One guy in front of us sways slightly, and Charlotte subtly moves closer to me.

“Your runway show is tomorrow, right? Are you nervous?”

She looks at me, expression flattening. “Not really. I’ll get poked and prodded by a dozen hands backstage, stand around for hours waiting my turn, wear something ridiculous that nonormal person would ever wear in real life, and walk in a straight line.” She crosses her arms. “But if it’s Paris-themed again, I swear I’ll set fire to the Eiffel Tower backdrop myself.”

I take my wallet out. “You don’t sound enthusiastic.”

She shrugs. “It’s all the same. You put on the dress, the hair, the makeup, you become this...thing for people to look at. And then you go home, scrub it all off, and wonder if you actually exist when no one’s looking.”

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