The ping of a message yanks me back to earth.
Mom
Your tux is ready—left it in your room. You're driving Nora and Camilla, they're getting ready at the house. And please don't be late for the gala. Love you x
When I get home, the house is silent as a graveyard. Jake and Ollie must've left with the moms already.
"Hello? Anyone here?" My voice echoes off empty walls, returning lonely and hollow.
I'm halfway up the stairs when Camilla bursts out of Nora's room, practically vibrating with excitement. She's got that look—the one that means she's sitting on information that could start or end wars. Her dark curls are wild from what I assume was an intense styling session, and there's a smudge of mascara above her left eye that she hasn't noticed yet.
"Wait until you see her," she stage-whispers, bouncing on her toes. "She looks like an absolute fucking queen."
I don't doubt it. Nora could wear a trash bag and still outshine anyone in any room. I try to keep my face neutral, but Camilla reads me like a billboard. She pokes my chest with one perfectly manicured finger.
"It's actually painful watching you try to play it cool right now."
"I need to talk to you about something, or someone…" She freezes mid-bounce. "Jay??—"
"Oh God," she groans, but the flush creeping up her neck betrays her. "Not this again."
"Why not?" I dodge her swat, grinning. "The guy is crazy about you, Camilla, give him a chance."
"He is not!" She lands a hit this time, her rings catching my arm.
I rub my arm, still smirking. "It's actually painful watching you try to play it cool right now," I mimic her earlier remark.
"Oh, shut up," she mutters, but her lips are twitching. "We're polar opposites. He's all…" she waves her hands vaguely, "broody and dark, and I'm??—"
"A hurricane in a party dress?" She swats my arm again, harder. "It's why it works. Opposites attract."
"It's not going to happen." She's fighting a smile now, tucking her hair behind her ear—her tell when she's flustered. "Besides, we'd kill each other within a week."
"At least you'll never get bored." I wink, knowing I'm pushing her buttons. But she can't deny what's there. I've seen it, Nora has seen it, and Jay isn't someone who gives up easily when he decides he cares about something.
"I will end you, Sullivan." But she's grinning, her eyes bright with possibility she won't admit to. "And if you breathe a word of this to him??—"
"Your secret is safe." I raise my hands in surrender. "Though it's hardly a secret when you stare at his arms every time he wears a t-shirt."
"Jesus, you're insufferable," she groans, already heading for the stairs. At the top, she pauses, throwing me a look that's pure mischief. "And speaking of insufferable pining, wait till you see what your girl is wearing. Try not to swallow your tongue, Sullivan."
She disappears down the stairs before I can respond, her laughter trailing behind her like perfume, her heels clicking against hardwood fades replacing the thundering of my own heart.
Downstairs, I adjust my bow tie again, the fabric suddenly too confining. Then I hear her footsteps trailing down the stairs, each one making my pulse skip like a needle finding that perfect scratch in a vinyl record. The sound resonates through my bones, through spaces I didn't know existed inside me.
There's a feeling when you're waiting for that one person to enter a room—something beyond mere anticipation. It's like standing on an edge, but it's not like the jagged precipice of addiction I know too well. This edge is different—diamond-sharp, splitting me between who I was before this moment and who I'll be after.
My eyes catch her feet first, bare against the hardwood. My gaze trails upward, and when our eyes lock, it's like magnets finding their match. I've had the shit kicked out of me multiple times, but I've never had the breath stolen from my lungs quite like this. Nora descends the stairs like a dream walking into reality. Her emerald dress clings to her frame, the slit high enough to make my pulse forget its rhythm. The color makes her eyes more vibrant than I've ever seen them, and her hair cascades in waves, catching the light as she moves with so much grace. Every step is deliberate, unhurried, as if she knows exactly what she's doing to my sanity.
She's not just beautiful—she's blinding.
The kind of sight that makes everything else blur around the edges until there's nothing left but her. Lenora Wells is the song I've been trying to write my whole life, the melody that's always been stuck in my head, but I could never quite catch.
She reaches the bottom of the stairs, barefoot, holding her heels with a dramatic sigh.
"I hate these things. If I could, I'd wear my Converse instead."
I chuckle, because of course she would. She was always the girl who preferred the Stones over The Backstreet Boys, who'd rather play football than with dolls. She was always different, and that's what I loved about her.
