Page 120 of Never Ever Getting Back Together
His smile slips, and he shrugs. “I knew a Jordy once, too.”
THIRTY-FIVESkye
When we arrive at the studio, we’re immediately steered backstage for hair and makeup. Our clothing is sponsored today, and I’m wearing a short red dress with a plunging neckline and long sleeves.
The color of passion and lust.
The color of the Other Woman.
It’s fitting twice over now.
They place me in a room with Perrie, and a makeup artist moves deftly between us, applying foundation and mascara and highlighter with a finish so flawless we look airbrushed.
“How do you feel?” Perrie asks as the artist starts on our hair.
I breathe out in a harsh whoosh of air. “Fine. I suppose. A little nervous. You?”
“I’m… actually really excited to go home.” When I glance at her, she’s beaming into her hands.
“Can you believe we go home after this?” I ask.
“Home doesn’t even feel real anymore. I don’t regret coming here, but I miss my apartment. I miss my cat. I miss… being able to hop in the car at one a.m. to grab some fries if I have a craving. You know?”
“I do,” I say. “I’m not going home, exactly, but it’ll be nice to have that freedom. For things to feel normal again.”
Perrie giggles in a dark sort of manner. “Skye. I don’t think things are going to be normal again for a long time. Maybe not ever.”
She’s correct. What even is normal, anymore? Who even is that girl who arrived in Chalonne seven weeks ago? I’m not entirely certain I would recognize her if I ran into her on the street.
“I’m just ready to get my hands on my phone again,” Perrie says.
“I bet you’re missing everyone.”
“I am.Somuch. I’ve never gone this long without speaking to my little brother.” She pauses, thoughtful. “Also, I’m dying to check my follower count.”
“Aren’t the other girls here tonight? Maybe one of them can tell you what you’re up to.”
Perrie straightens in her seat so suddenly her neck cracks. “Oh mygod,you’re right.”
When I’m ready—a feat that takes far less time than it does for Perrie, since my pixie-length hair only has a couple styling options available these days—I’m fitted with a mic-pack and sent off into the green room.
Where I come face-to-face with Maya.
She’s radiant in a shimmery gray-lilac dress, strappy heels, and her hair spilling over her shoulders in thick auburn waves.
Her hair is hiding the freckles I love. I want to brush it off her shoulders to show them to the world. And, once I’ve done that, I want to kiss them, before I lose the opportunity to ever touch them—her—again.
But of course, that’s just a fantasy.
“Skye,” she murmurs. “Can we talk?”
I absolutely, truly cannot do this. But I give her a moment. Just one moment. “Is there anything I don’t know?”
“No. You know everything.”
“Nothing’s changed?”
Her eyes widen then narrow, like my words have wounded her. But how can I have wounded her whenshedid this tous?
