Page 19 of The Last Kind of Kiss
“Then maybe you should’ve said that to me when we were still together,” she whispers, the faintest gleam of tears pebbling on her lash line. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to salvage the rest of this night and pray that the press didn’t catch my almost fall on camera.”
She’s completely numb when she walks by me—no clenched jaw, no Medusa glare, no quills poised and at the ready. And when I reach out to grab her wrist—to convince her to eat, to convince her to stay by my side for the rest of the night—she dodges me before I can make contact.
We’re nothing but two souls who have already crossed each other’s paths, now traveling on totally parallel lines.
7
COUNT YOUR DAYS, BRISTOL BRENNER
LILA
If I can’t even get through a fucking gala with Bristol, how am I supposed to work with him for three months? This night was supposed to be amazing. This night was supposed to be my fresh-faced debut into the modeling world, and instead, all the reporters have managed to capture is my dry mouth and my two left feet. I’m screwing everything up. And as easy as it would be to blame Bristol, it’s my fault too. All I had to do was act professionally for two hours, but I let him strike that tinderbox of hatred inside me, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to go up in skyscraping flames.
I shoulder open the door to the women’s restroom—the only place Bristol can’t follow me—and I stagger over to the counter of polished marble cradling a row of porcelain sinks. The mirror is large—framed by fragments of crushed diamond—and it picks up on every little insecurity broadcasted across my face. The slight redness in my eyes, the sorrowful crease between my eyebrows, the startling lack of color in my complexion. Vanilla-scented candles flicker and illuminate the space, perfuming it with what should be an intoxicating ambrosia but only adds to the headache caving in my skull. Rolls of steaming, warm towelssit wrapped in stems of wildflowers, and strokes of luminescent gold intermingle with the candle-made shadows, dousing everything in a warm haze.
Everything’s quiet and peaceful, and the restroom is surprisingly unoccupied despite the overflowing multitude of people outside. The silence is uncharacteristically welcoming, and I lose myself in it for who knows how long, relishing my first Bristol-free moment of the night. Since splashing water on my face is a no-go, I practice a few breathing techniques in an attempt to get my heart rate under control.
Hands splayed on the marble, head hanging, it feels like I can almost hear the organ in my chest fighting to be free, simultaneously deafening my ears with a rush of blood. I pause for a few minutes, making sure I’m not going to pass out, and myapparentlytalkative stomach chooses the most inopportune moment to emit a deep, hollow roar that echoes off the tiled walls.
“Ugh, shut up!” I hiss, placing a hand against my belly as I glare down at the culprit. “You made your point, alright?”
Get yourself together, Lila. You’re a mess. You’re never going to impress anyone when you’re like this. This may be your only shot at fame, and you’re seriously jeopardizing it because of some guy? He’s a guy. There’s a sea full of them. He’s not special. Your mom didn’t work this hard just so you could throw this opportunity away.
I don’t want to let my mom down. I don’t want to letmyselfdown.
I must’ve been too entangled in my depressing spiral of self-doom to hear the door to one of the stalls creak open, because all of a sudden, a girl with fiery, bouncy curls appears by my side, washing her hands in the sink next to me.
I try not to stare at her, but it seems like all my manners have flown out the goddamn window tonight. She’s absolutely stunning. So stunning I can’t look away.
She’s fashioning a navy-blue dress that melds to her curves like it was sculpted just for her, complete with a high slit that shows her entire thigh—one adorned by a glittery garter strung together by tiny jewels. The strapless neckline flares into extravagant azure flames, bolstered by the breadth of her chest and giving her the most enviable dip of cleavage. And the trailing bottom of her dress drags on the floor, partially concealing silver heels that bring her to match my own towering height. Everything is cinched in at the waist, highlighting an athletic figure that’s equal measures feminine and strong, and don’t even get me started on her arms. Hell, she’s got buffer arms than I’ve seen on some guys.
I stare at her unashamedly for the entire time she washes her hands, and she has the decency to pretend like I’m not being an absolute creep. She reaches for a towel—crossing my line of sight—and chuckles to herself before drying her hands.
“Do I have something in my teeth?” she asks, shocking me out of my mindless trance.
I scramble for something to say, but all my thoughts have been jammed into a blender and churned into little pieces. “Huh? Oh, no! No. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m staring at you. You’re just, uh, you’re really beautiful,” I blurt out, feeling embarrassment sting my cheeks.
A smile graces her lips, emphasizing the tiniest of dimples. “I can say the same about you.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“You hiding in here because this gala is a whole shitshow?”
“Something like that, I guess.”
“Yeah, I’m here because my boyfriend’s friend got us tickets. It’s a really sweet gesture, but these kinds of things aren’t my scene. I’ve listened to enough problematic pitches from old, misogynistic men for the night.” She fishes around for something in her purse, her tongue poking against her cheek inconcentration, and she eventually starts emptying her bag out. A pack of gum, a hair tie, a travel-sized hand sanitizer, a pill container, and an unopened granola bar all tumble out.
Maybe it’s because I’m lightheaded, but I feel unbearably hot, and I hope that she can’t see the way my arms shake against the countertop. My mouth waters at the crumbly goodness in front of me, and the howling pit in my gut begs me for a single bite, a taste to silence the hunger pangs.
She eventually locates a tube of pink lip gloss, unsuctioning the wand with asmackand applying a new layer onto her lips. She eyes me in the mirror while I’m probably drooling like a dog, and she scoots the bar over to me with her free hand.
“Have it,” she says.
I must’ve zoned out because I don’t realize she’s addressing me until it’s a second too late, and I absently wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “I couldn’t possibly?—”
Her voice curls with resounding adamancy. “I insist. I already filled up at the buffet table.”
I’m about to protest, but this intimidating girl stares me down, looking like she’ll do some real damage if I have the gall to reject her offer. So, I think about the well-being of my body before eventually relenting.
