Page 149 of How You See Me
There’s a photo of the sunset, spanning over the ocean, and my heart starts beating again. Touched that he sent it,my fingers won’t type as fast as my brain spits out questions.
Me:Hi! Where are you? How's Ava? How was the ocean? How are you?
It isn’t until the three little dots don’t appear, even after a few minutes of begging, that I realize he’s not with me in this moment. Disappointment ripples through me, and I slump to the cold tile floor.
I missed my opportunity to talk to him. He’s probably on a plane, heading home where he wants—needs—to be, but taking him further away from me. I’m happy for him and Ava, but it doesn’t make the pain any more tolerable.
When Grant taps on the door, surely responding to the sniffles my sudden tears brought on, I stand to face myself in the mirror.
“You’re fine.”
“What’s that?” Grant calls. “Need some help?”
“I’m fine,” I cover, and with a deep breath, I try not to make a liar out of me.
I’m more thanfine. I have the love of an amazing man and my brother, my art, and my blooming career. I found a new freedom from staring down my fears, and I have my best friend by my side in one of the most exciting places in the country.
What more could a girl want?
???
The first boutique Grant drags me into feels more like a private gallery than a clothing store. Everything glitters. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling like frozen fireworks, and the racks are scattered out and sparse. No price tags, just silk, sequins, and a smug hush.
A woman in head-to-toe black approaches, her hair slicked back into a high bun. It must have taken both precision and pain to make every strand that smooth, that perfectly positioned. She eyes me, chin tilted up, surely assessing if I belong here or should be shooed back outside with a broom.
Grant gives her a quick once-over and snaps his fingers. “We need something that screamsI just survived heartbreak, but I’m hotter than ever,but also whispersif you get too close, I’ll ruin you.”
The woman doesn’t blink. “Right this way.”
“Was that English?”
“She got it. Watch.”
We’re led into a back dressing area with burgundy velvet benches, a mirrored runway, and gold racks lined with designer gowns that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
“Grant,” I murmur, “this place is . . . ridiculous.”
“If you want collectors to take you seriously, you have to play the part. This is Vegas. You’re not buying a dress, you’re buying respect.”
A sales assistant appears, silent and efficient, hanging dresses on the rack for us to inspect. She hands me a flute of champagne without asking if I want it. But knowing what I’m about to endure, I want it and maybe three more.
The first dress is a hard no. Metallic jade and covered in dangling feathers. The second is better—black silk, sleek and minimal—but I can’t even zip it past my ribs.
“You need to breathe in,” Grant instructs from his throne-like seat beside the mirror. “Thinkcorset energy.”
“I’m trying not to pass out.”
“Fashion isn’t comfortable, honey. That’s how you know it’s working.”
Four dresses later, we’re both frustrated. He crosses his legs and taps a painted nail against his knee. “What are we trying to say at this show? ‘I’m worth every penny’? ‘I’m meant to be here’? ‘I’m going to make you beg for a piece of me’?”
My reflection in the mirror shows someone playing a part—perfect makeup, hair styled, lips plump and parted slightly like I’m thinking something other thanget me out of here.
“I just want to feel likemeagain,” I say quietly.
Grant doesn’t respond right away. His gaze roams over me and the room before he stands and walks over.
“Then, let’s findyou.Not Vegas you. Not heartbroken you. Just . . . Josie.”
