“That Goodwill near Beverly Hills. It’s my favorite hunting ground.” Cass owns Totally Tattoo now and makes a good living, but it wasn’t always that way, and I don’t think I’ve ever once seen her buy retail.
“Usually I only score a ten-dollar pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans and some kick-ass tees,” she continues. “But this time there was an entire rack of evening clothes. I swear, I don’t get those women. Wear it once and then donate it.” She shrugs philosophically. “But whatever. I’m happy to take advantage of their economic idiocy.”
“And look incredibly hot in your frugality.”
“Damn skippy. You look pretty amazing yourself,” she adds.
“I should. I spent two hours getting a trim and having my makeup done.” I’ve worn my hair short since I was fifteen. That’s when I cut off my long, loose waves in favor of a cut that’s a cross between a pixie and a bob. At the time, all I’d wanted was a change, and as dramatic a one as I thought I could get away with. Since shaving my head was a bit too radical even for my mood, I’d dialed it back.
Now, though, I genuinely like the cut. According to Kelly, the girl who does my hair, it suits my oval-shaped face and highlights my cheekbones. Honestly, I don’t care about the reason. I just want to like what I see in the mirror.
“The red tips are especially awesome,” Cass says.
“I know, right? Isn’t it fun?” My hair is dark brown with natural golden highlights. Frankly, I like it that way, so I’ve never been tempted to follow Cass’s lead and dye my hair temporarily pink or purple or even just plain red.
Tonight, however, I thought I’d have a little fun, and I’d asked Kelly to see about giving me some colored highlights. She went a step further, focusing on the tips of a few chunks of hair in a way that seems not only fun but elegant.
“It’s awesome, yes, but what I meant was that the color matches your dress. Which is fabulous, by the way.”
“It should be. It cost a freaking fortune.”
I may not spend my life trolling consignment stores like Cass, but I rarely spend as much on a dress as I did on this one. It’s fire-engine red, and though I decided to go with cocktail length, I think it’s as elegant and sexy as Cass’s floor-skimming evening gown. And, yes, as I did a turn in front of the dressing room mirror, I’d tried to see myself through Jackson’s eyes. Not because I wanted to look hot—or, not entirely—but because I wanted to look successful. Competent.
Powerful.
“It works?” I ask Cass. “Not too slutty? Or worse, too corporate?”
“It’s perfect. You look like a confident, professional businesswoman. And clearly you took my advice and invested in a padded push-up bra, because you even have cleavage.”
“Bitch,” I say, but with the utmost affection. I’ve got an athletic build, slim and lean. Which is great when it comes to finding clothes, but not so great when I’m trying to fill out a dress.
I expect her to shoot me a snarky comeback, but instead there is only silence. “What?” I demand, when I can’t take it any longer.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
It is the gentleness in her voice that cuts through me. Cass is loud and boisterous, and I am used to that. Softness from her can break me.
I nod. “I’ve put my heart and soul into this project. I’m not going to let it die if I can save it.”
“Even if saving it hurts you?”
I force myself not to wince. “It won’t.”
“Dammit, Syl, it already has. Do you think I don’t get it? There is no one who knows you better than I do, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m the one who inked your back when you got back to LA from Atlanta. I know how wrecked you were, and I swear to god, if you hadn’t been pumped up about the job with Stark you would have just crumbled into dust and blown away.”
“Cass, don’t—”
“Don’t what? Don’t worry about you?”
“It was five years ago. I put it behind me.”
“And now it’s back in front of you.”
“No,” I say, and then stop, because she is right. “Okay, maybe. Yes. Guilty as charged. I’m walking into the lion’s den. Pouring the gasoline and striking the match. Jumping off the cliff. Pick your metaphor, because it doesn’t matter. I have to do this.”
“Why?”
“Are you really asking me that?”
Her shoulders droop. “No. I get it. I’ve watched you work this project. I know how much it means to you. It’s like me and the studio. I loved working for my dad, but it’s better now that the place is totally mine. I feel, I don’t know, grown up. Complete.”
“Yeah. It’s like that.”
“It’s just that he already said no, right? He told Stark, and then he refused to even take a meeting with you. So do you really believe you can change his mind?”
“I have to believe it,” I say. “Right now, unsupported optimism is all I’ve got going for me.”
“Oh, man. Don’t say that.”
I lean forward to take her hand. “I can do this. And I’ll be fine. Really. I’m not as fragile as I used to be. I can do this,” I repeat, as much to convince myself as her.
“Fuck yeah, you can,” she says, though the words are belied by a weak smile.
“Come on,” I urge. “How can I fail when I look this hot?”
That gets a laugh. “You’ve got a point,” she admits. “I mean, right now you look good enough to eat. And, hell, I can remember when you schlepped around looking so ratty that not even a dog would want to give you a lick.”
“No kidding, right?” I’d spent my last years of high school trying very hard to be invisible. It was Cass who’d slapped some sense into me the summer before I started college at UCLA.
It’s a day I remember with crystal clarity. It was a Tuesday, and we’d decided to go check out the campus that would soon become my home. A couple of upperclassmen had given us both the onceover, and my immediate reaction had been to hunch my shoulders and cross my arms over my chest.
“Are you a fucking moron?” she’d asked in that gentle Cassidy way that she has.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on, Syl. You need to stop this. You’re totally hot and you hide it under ugly sweatshirts and baggy jeans. And the hair—”
“I am not growing out my hair.”
“Have ya considered maybe, I don’t know, combing it?”
I’d shoved my hands into the pockets of my baggy jeans and stared at the sidewalk.
“Look,” she’d said more gently. “I get it. I do. You wanna get all comfy on my shrink couch and I’ll tell you exactly what is going on in that head of yours.”
“I didn’t finally tell you about what happened so you could pick me apart,” I’d snapped.
“Guess what? I don’t care. Because you are my best friend and I love you and you are handing that asshole power on a silver fucking platter.”
“I’m not handing him anything,” I’d said. “He is gone. Long gone.” And thank god for that.
“The hell he is. He’s the reason you walk around looking like you’re trying to get typecast as Dumpy Female Neighbor. Maybe you haven’t seen the prick since you turned fifteen, but he is with you every fucking day.”