“So relatable,” I say. “You look great, by the way.”
“Thanks.” She twirls in her sequined little black dress. Simple but chic. A little boring, but she’s the kind of person who just glows, so she could wear anything and you’d still want to talk to her. “Wish me luck.”
I swallow dryly. “Good luck.”
I spend most of my night sketching in my bedroom, trying to make my brain work again. Most of the other women play drinking games downstairs, but I don’t think my liver can take it. Besides, what they’re really doing is waiting up for Sara Claire to come home. I’m already feeling a little miserable, and it’s the kind of miserable that doesn’t play well with others.
I wish I had my tablet. Switching mediums when I was blocked was a trick I learned early on, but alas, no electronic devices in the Before Midnight château. If anyone finds the radio stuffed in my shoe, I’ll get kicked out faster than I can even zip my suitcase.
The tip of my pencil snaps against my sketch pad, sending a stray line skidding across the page. Maybe I just have to let it go. Even in school, I knew that not all of us would succeed as designers. For some reason, I thought I was special, and that I would defy all odds. But my well is empty. I have nothing left to give. Deep down I know that I could be happy doing other things. At least, I think. I could find some sort of job in fashion. Maybe I could talk to Sierra’s contacts at Macy’s. Maybe I don’t have to create clothing to work with clothing. The thought of it is a little freeing. And yet, it pains me deeply to think of letting my longtime dream go.
At around one in the morning, Stacy wobbles through the door and plops down on her bed. “I think this might be worse than college,” she says, her last word devolving into a loud burp.
“Girl, you’re nasty,” Addison says as she walks in behind her, strips down to absolutely nothing, and passes out in her bed.
Stacy and I share a look, and she just shrugs. “At least I plan on brushing my teeth,” she says loudly.
Soon I’m the only one still awake, so I throw a shirt over my lamp to dim the light. Normally, I’d just go to bed too, but I’m pretty sure they’re both too drunk to care if I keep putzing around with my sketch pad. I didn’t bring my whole collection of pencils with me—shoes were my priority—but I managed to bring a few of my favorites and a kneaded eraser.
The page is smudged from erasing false starts and bad ideas one right after the next. But finally, after an hour or two, I decide to start with the basics: a shoe. A man’s shoe—something I’ve never really dabbled with. A laceless deep blue suede shoe with a blocked-off square toe. And then it’s pants, tailored close to the leg and cropped at the ankle. I add a button-up shirt with a tiny floral pattern. A velvet tux jacket and a matching bow tie. It’s less of a design sketch and more of a portrait….
Now I find myself attempting to sketch Henry’s face. I’ve always been awful with faces. Sierra used to make fun of me for just drawing smiley faces on every sketch. With a frustrated sigh, I take my eraser to his jawline over and over again, unable to get it just right. The line of it is too soft and then too harsh. I can’t find the right balance.
“You’re up,” says Sara Claire while she tiptoes through the bedroom door.
“Hi,” I whisper as I shove my sketch pad under my pillow. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She nods, balancing on one foot, taking off her gold sling-back heels.
“How was it?” I dare to ask.
“Nice,” she says in too high a voice, like she’s finding it hard to believe.
I give her a discerning look, and she caves way too easily.
“It was actually really good and I can’t believe I’m even saying that about a date that was recorded for national television.” She joins me on my bed, scooting all the way back so she can lean against the wall. “Is—Is Addison buck naked?”
I stifle a laugh. “Uh, yeah, she’s toasted.”
“Oh Lord.” She rolls her eyes. “Queen of the memes over here.”
“So dancing, huh?”
Sara Claire sighs. “Yeah, they had us go to some honky-tonk, and Wes had to get Irina to hunt down a pair of cowboy boots for me. I thought we’d be going to a club or something, but I guess they’re painting me as the Southern belle and wanted to play it up. They even had me change out of this dress”—she motions down to her black sequined minidress—“and put me in, like, a tiny little denim skirt and a gingham bustier.”
“A bustier?” I ask.
“My mother is going to die when she sees me prancing around on television in a bra made out of a tablecloth, but at least I don’t have to be there to witness her demise.”
“Oh God,” I say. “I keep thinking about what’s going to happen when all the people who know me—like, really know me—see the show.”
“Oh, baby,” she says. “They’ve seen. It’s Tuesday. First episode aired tonight.”
I gasp. “You’re right! I swear, time is a meaningless circle in this place.” I wish I could talk to Sierra and all my friends back in New York. They probably think something is legitimately wrong with me or my life has turned into some kind of M. Night Shyamalan movie.
She shivers a little. “I’m trying not to think about it. Honestly, I hope I still have a job when I get home. I might be a daddy’s girl, but Daddy takes his business very seriously.” She takes a deep breath. “So anyway, we went dancing. And then the producers arranged this elaborate romantic dinner for just the two of us inside this really adorable old barbecue joint. There were rose petals and candles, and I got barbecue sauce all over my face—even though we really only ate for a minute so they could get a few shots of us eating ribs—and he did that whole cute thing where he wiped the sauce off my chin and then, that was it.”
My shoulders sink. “That’s it?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry…. It’s just that this is so weird…. Like, I like you. In any other setting, we’d be friends. Actually, we are friends, but…I just don’t want to make it weird.”
I appreciate how careful she’s trying to be of me and my feelings, but this might actually be worse than just knowing. “I don’t think there’s a right way to do this. I think we just have to be honest and tell each other when it’s too much and we won’t talk about it anymore, but for now…you’re leaving me hanging! Give me the goods!”
She drops her chin to her shoulder and smiles. “He is a real good kisser. I was so into it, but I kept having to remind myself that we were being filmed, and that this was still for the cameras and that I couldn’t let myself get swept up in it all just yet. I’ve been through a lot, Cindy. I don’t know how much more hurt I can handle.” She bites down on her lip and leans in a little closer. “But then, while the crew was packing up and we were waiting for our cars, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek…and I don’t know, but somehow it was the hottest thing. No one was looking. And you know how militant they are about leaving us alone with him.”
I nod. That’s like a Before Midnight golden rule.