Page 19 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“Fast talkers, Bea, are afraid. Afraid they won’t be heard. It’s a panic response. It says: ‘Please, let me say everything before you interrupt me or get bored or stop listening.’”
She took a deep breath, as if she were about to chant an ancient mantra.
“But speaking like this… slowly… is hypnotic. It’s a power move. It says: ‘You’ll wait for me to finish. Because what I’m saying matters.’”
“Mmhm.”
“It’s the voice of philosophers. Of prophets. Of whiskey commercial narrators. It’s the voice… of God in old historical epics.”
“Well, then God had terrible comic timing,” I muttered. “You’re making me sleepy. And I slept eleven hours last night.”
“You’ve made contradicting me into a hobby, but you know I’m right… Plus, my vocabulary is broader now. More refined. I use ambiguous, poetic phrases. Like:‘I’m not running away. I’m just changing the meaning of my directions.’Or:‘I dress in silence so I don’t overlap with the universe.’”
I stared at her. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t matter, Bea. It doesn’t matter…” She paused theatrically, gazing into the void as if contemplating some inner horizon. “We’re on completely different planets right now. And yet… there’s still one last thing to do. The final act. The one that will complete my transformation and align my aesthetics perfectly with my soul.”
“Let’s hear it,” I said, mouth full of cereal.
“I need a new look.”
9
She dragged me out shopping.
I didn’t exactly understand why she was so determined to have me tag along, considering I shot down every single piece of clothing she showed me—and she, inevitably, bought it anyway.
Then I realized the truth: she didn’t need my opinion. She needed a witness. A sidekick. Someone to use as a talking mirror while she processed out loud the sacred teachings ofla Contessa’smanual.
I wasn’t there to contribute. I was there to absorb. To nod occasionally. To hum “mmm.”
She could have brought a life-sized mannequin with my face taped onto it. Same effect.
And no, we didn’t end up in Manhattan, browsing chic stores along Fifth Avenue. Of course not. Tess hauled me to Williamsburg—her personal kingdom of eccentric gothic style—where the boutiques had names likeMoonlight & Silk,The Gothic Drape, orBelle Époque Redux. Which,honestly, was enough to make me roll my eyes.
In the shop windows, the mannequins wore black corsets, veils over their faces, and clutched old books to their chests.
The moment we stepped through the first doorway, I was hit with a wave of incense, patchouli, and the dusty scent of books abandoned in an attic. The lights were low, filtered through brass lanterns, and the walls were draped in plum and antique gold fabric—threadbare in spots, but clinging to theatrical ambition. In the background, ethereal harps played music that sounded like it belonged to a druidic ritual.
Tess was hunting for a very specific style: femme fatale meets Victorian witch. A nineteenth-century dark look with decadent enchantress vibes.
Me, in my unrequested role as the voice of reason, tried to bring her back down to earth.
“You do realize the Countess lived in France in the late 1800s, right? She didn’t even know what jeans were. She probably thought a zipper was some kind of torture device. You don’t have to take her literally on everything. You’ve got a hundred and fifty years of fashion to choose from.”
But Tess, of course, wasn’t listening to me. Not even by accident.
I watched her step out of the dressing room in blood-red corsets, sheer high-neck blouses with puffed sleeves, and long layered black skirts. Shealways looked halfway between a Victorian fortune-teller and the heroine of a three-act gothic drama.
“All you’re missing is a skull in your hand,” I told her once as she admired herself in the mirror. “And we can start Hamlet right away.”
She turned to the sales clerk, dead serious. “Excuse me, do you have a skull?”
Her variations drifted gracefully—if unsettlingly—betweengothic widowandsexy urban vampire. Elbow-length lace gloves, a filigree gothic choker, chandelier earrings with blood-red stones.
She had her eye on a black damask handbag and a clutch stamped with esoteric symbols that looked like magical seals. Patent leather ankle boots, medium heel, determination sky-high. Vintage-patterned sheer stockings. And a dark silk scarf, embroidered by hand.
I watched her strut out of the fitting room, one hand on her hip, gaze dramatic, as if she were about to deliver the closing monologue of a tragedy.
