I don’t get it. But I hear my mom call from downstairs that we’re leaving in half an hour, so I pick a pale pink off-the-shoulder sweater dress, find my grey suede boots, and go on the hunt for my favorite silver hoops.
My smokey eyes take five minutes, and I put in a few curls for a messy-dressy look.
The ride to the restaurant passes quickly, probably because my mom and dad are deciding between Fordham and Boston U, and only occasionally asking for my input. I mentioned Duke, because after living in Vermont, I could use a little warmth, but my mom flipped. She has this thing about wanting all of us within easy driving distance.
And the weird thing is, I’ve kind of resigned myself to it. I’ve done a lot of thinking today. A 166 is a pretty good score. It’s not a fluke. Maybe this really is what I’m meant to do. This is, apparently, what I’m good at. This is what I bring to the squad. I always thought it was a blush brush and the perfect shade of red lipstick, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was using all that to hide? I don’t know. But I do know that my parents are proud of me. And I’m applying to law school. And maybe I can use my people skills when I earn my degree. That’s a good way to look at it, right?
We park and walk in, and I spot Jake right away. He lifts me up in a hug and when I hold on extra tight, he doesn't question it, he just hugs back.
“Did I hear the news right? Princess P is going to law school?” I turn to see Trevor at Jake’s side.
“What the heck are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in North Carolina?” I ask, laughing, as I hug him.
“I’m on break, like you,” he says, “and I was visiting Jake when your parents called, so I had to tag along and congratulate my favorite princess. I’ll admit to being a little shocked, but if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
I hug Trevor again, just because I can, and he seems to understand what I mean. I can’t say all the words—I don’t even know where I’d start, but he gets it.
I sit next to my favorite guys, and Sophie walks in with Nate and Megan. There’s more hugging, of course, and we’re all excited for any tidbit of info they share about the new baby.
Dinner is lovely, as expected. The food and wine are delicious, and the conversation flows smoothly. Is it always like this, I wonder? I feel like I’m finally in the inner circle, no longer the silly girl with a flat iron and her own YouTube channel. It’s nice, I’ll admit that much. But if this is what it feels like to belong, then belonging is overrated.
Nate and my mom are talking about changes in New York State tax code, while Megan and Sophie and my dad are talking about an art exhibit opening this spring. I have nothing to contribute. So much for being part of the gang. Even when I do my best to fit in, I’m still just a bit outside the circle.
I excuse myself just before dessert to go freshen up. Really, I’m checking my texts just to be brutally disappointed, but my family doesn’t need to know that. I do my business and wash up at the sink. Looking in the mirror, I see a few places that need touching up, so I apply another coat of lipstick and a lighter coat of gloss. I’m touching up my highlighter when I get the weird feeling that someone is staring at me.
Another glance in the mirror tells me I’m right. The woman at the sink next to me is looking right at me, as if she’s trying to place me. But I’ve never seen her before in my life.
I smile awkwardly because I have no idea what else to do.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “but you’re Paige? The Cover Paige? Is that you?”
It’s funny, but I don’t get recognized too much, unless I’m all glammed up. Everybody on campus knows who I am and what I do, but real adults in the real world rarely see me as anything but a college girl.
I smile in return. “I am.” I shrug, not sure if I should tell her my page may go by the wayside as my hours are filled with endless applications and internships, or if she’s going to ask me to sign her makeup bag or something.
“Oh, my gosh. I never do this. I’ve never approached a celebrity. I mean, I don’t see many celebrities, but I was once on a plane with that guy who sells vacuums on late night T.V., and I just pretended I had no idea who he was. But I just had to say hi. And thank you.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell this very kind woman that I’m a silly girl with a makeup brush, and not a celebrity, and I’m pretty sure the vacuum guy isn’t one either, but that would be rude, so I just smile.
“I can’t tell you how much your videos mean to me. They make my day. Especially yesterday’s. It was so honest, so unfiltered. Oh, my gosh, I was nearly crying by the end.”
“Wait? What video? I didn’t post anything yesterday. Thursday morning, I did an eyebrow ER with one of my floormates, but…”
“Yes, you did. It’s gone viral. Haven’t you seen?” She pulls out her phone and brings up the video—the unedited video—of my fixing my puffy post-breakup face.
“How? What the heck? I didn’t post this. I always edit before I post. And no one else would have— Emma. Holy hell. Emma must’ve uploaded it. She’s the only person besides me who can get to my studio.”
“Well, then, Emma did you a favor. Look for yourself. Do you see these comments? EriqStyles says you gave them the courage to wear makeup and finally feel like themselves. And MammaBearAZ says you’re amazing and to keep your chin up. Stella1939 says men are rat bastards and you’re a queen. And look, PrettBoy4303 says you’re always there for us, and we’re supporting you. And there are literally thousands and thousands more.”
I just stand there, stunned.
“You’re obviously out to dinner with your family, or your ex, or someone new, or whatever. I won’t keep you. But Paige,” her deep brown eyes look into mine, “what you do is so important. I mean, take me.” She spreads her hands wide and does a little turn. “I’m wearing a cute dress and heels and I feel good about myself. That wasn’t true a year ago. Tonight, I’m on my first date since my divorce and that’s because I watch you and I laugh and makeup and hair become fun, not intimidating. You made me believe I was worth something—whether I’m made-up or not and I—I just can’t thank you enough.” She spontaneously hugs me and then exits the restroom while I stand there, absorbing the last five minutes of my life.
I shoot a quick message to Emma to see if she did, in fact, upload my video. Not that it really matters. What’s done is done. And judging by the numbers, people needed to hear my message as much as I needed to say it, polished or not.
My mind is racing as I make my way back to the table, but only Trevor and Jake seem to realize I’m a little off. The server arrives with champagne flutes, and my dad clears his throat to make a speech.
It feels like the room is spinning and something is buzzing in my ear and I’m lightheaded, all at once, and I haven’t even touched the champagne.
