Page 32 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
The little bulldog follows me back into the building. The jingle in my pockets tells me I’ve got a few coins on me, which I pour directly into the first floor vending machine. I have enough money to yield three candy bars, and while this seems like an enormous mistake on swimsuit day, I can’t help myself. I’ve hardly eaten since my crazy pageant adventure began.
Pockets loaded down with chocolate, I return to the stairwell, climb to the landing, and collapse into a heap in the corner. Pathetic, I know. But it’s the only place where I can escape the nonsense around me.
I lean my head back against the wall, close my eyes, and sit quietly for a minute, relishing the silence. If I try really hard, I can almost pretend I’m back at the library, sitting between the stacks after school, inhaling the comforting scent of ink on paper. But when I take a deep inhale, the stairwell smells dank. Buttercup is like a lead weight in my lap, and within seconds she’s snoring loud enough to peel the paint off the walls.
There’s no denying where I am.
I open my eyes, pull the candy bars from my pocket, and line them up on the floor beside me. My stomach growls, and its echo drowns out even Buttercup’s snores. I’m starving.
Even though I know every other Miss American Treasure contestant in the building is probably noshing on a lettuce leaf or a tiny pile of kale today, I shove all three candy bars into my mouth in quick succession.
I’m not going to lie. For a few minutes, I actually feel better. I’m doing something that Ginny would never, ever do, and it reminds me that I’m still me. I’m still Charlotte. No matter how hard I try or which swimsuit I cram myself into, I’ll never, ever, be my twin.
And that’s okay.
Deep down, I know it’s not a competition. It never was. Not even in those dark days of my engagement.
But my solace is short-lived. I hear footsteps on the stairway above me, and they’re accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a snuffling French bulldog.
Him again.
My first instinct is to run and hide. The absolute last thing I need right now is another one-on-one encounter with that man. But it’s too late to escape, and besides, a part of me—the foolish part, thewoundedpart—has something to say. Mainly because I’m filled with nonsensical rage at the idea that I can’t escape the absurd reality of my situation. Not even for five measly minutes.
And also because, how dare he speak to me like he did yesterday?
Howdarehe?
He reaches the bottom step, rounds the corner of the landing and stops dead in his tracks when he sees me sitting there.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say frostily.
I half expect him to ignore me and walk away without saying a word, but he doesn’t. He stares at me for a beat, his expression a perfectly sculpted, unreadable mask. Then his gaze rakes over me, taking in my sash, my bathrobe, the snoring dog in my lap, and then finally, the pile of candy bar wrappers next to me.
For reasons I can’t begin to fathom, his mouth curves into a smile.
And despite the fact that I’ve decided I despise him now, an undeniable flutter courses through me. It’s infuriating.
“Something funny?” I ask, depositing Buttercup on the floor and rising to my feet so I can look him in the eyes. They look impossibly blue at such close range. It’s like standing beneath a midsummer starry sky.
You know, if you’re into that kind of thing.
I swallow. Hard.
“You just never fail to surprise me, Hermione.” My heart gives an annoying little leap at the sound of my nickname. “That’s all.”
It almost sounds like a compliment, but it can’t be. Not after yesterday.
“I certainly surprised you in my interview, much to your disappointment.” Either Buttercup or Hamlet lets out a timely snort. I’m not sure which. They are mirror images of each other. “You made that clear.”
His smile fades. “Are you denying the fact that the things you’ve told me contradict your questionnaire in almost every way? It’s as if it was filled out by another person entirely.”
Maybe because it was.
He’s right, obviously. But I don’t want to hear it. I’m doing the best I can, and he left me feeling as though I’d disappointed him personally. As if I’d let him down.
And I refuse to apologize for the fact that I’m not Ginny.
Only I can’t tell him that, can I?
