LA'S

mber saying

ospital bed and tracing the calluses on his hand with my thumb. The way he looked at me-hollowed out but still smiling, like he was trying t

to this huge house. Well, not through the front, of cour

ls are clean and white. It smells like lemon and money. Ev

t simple and plain. A friend let me borrow i

est Ballroom. Keep moving. Don't talk unless someone talks to you. Do

t and walk through t

anyone to notice you. Black cotton, short sleeves, flat shoes. No

ing to stay quiet, to f

nto the ballroom, I realize

floor in gowns that cost more than my rent, sipping champagne and talking in soft, practiced voices tha

y of canapés that shake just a little too much

t be think

I

g in my mind like a broken cassette. The heat of his skin. The low rumble o

his name

ut later

i

d me and the way he made m

king, dodging elbows and diamond bra

s when it

e edge and lands on t

someone is watching. Probably ev

I

it's

ooks like it was stitched by sin itself, holding a glass

sta

ed Jo

who li

nce, just enough to leav

around the shrimp, but it's like I've

don't recognize him. He probably doesn't remem

a little. Like he's trying

ng flickers acro

gnit

G

nds and I jolted upright, my

wobbles and stabs the edge of my palm

cause if I don't I'll fall apa

*

s like they're grocery lists. My breath comes in shallow bursts. I make it

ell is he

amela. It's

id I

ght as none of it mattered. And now here he is, dressed like

orst

e wanted him

akes m

thing

, freckles, too much eyeliner-tilts her head

le. "Just nee

he guests see you like t

gh

rse, t

no curiosity, just a shrug like I'm not worth as

o the floor and p

and my hear

saw

cogni

. I loo

, and ran barefoot into the night if I had to. But I didn't. I stood there like

around the tray.

u still he

es don't care if your heart got broken by a man with a fake name and expensive

ngs burn like they're punishin

he little napkins. Smooth the hem of

walk

ith low laughter and the kind of music that sounds elegant until you listen

my he

Like a storm creeping under the s

ways-and ther

r thi

him. He is holding a drink, he probably do

hing

witches i

he salmon bites. Smile at the woman with a tight face and colder

my

at doin

. Burning the back of my neck. Weaving

d the bar to swap trays,

he's

o

my ankle and not to shake it. Maybe I imagined it, maybe he didn't recognize me

a walking bruise

lmost too close like it's

slams int

rn s

touch, but his scent curls into my nose-clean, expensi

lf

niel.

ies into my mouth an

him. I can't. M

I'd see you aga

the empty tray in my ha

who you were," I shot back,

's a

-"Fa

or apology. Just that-fair-like he knows he

y meet h

remember-dark, unreadab

ce is quieter than I mean

t you to be her

ll. Life's full of

knows the answer and doesn't need to say it out loud, just... kno

now? Or just part-time

cause they're wrong, but because they're too right, like he peeled back a layer I didn't

"This is me working. Yo

fts. "Prete

t you're not the kind of guy who disappears after-

anyway and he

riefly-to my lips. An

mber,"

oat ti

r all of i

is mouth feels dangerous.

d his gaze even though every

I don't

it's empty. "

s now. I need to get away befor

ck," I say. "Peop

g with a mock politeness

ng something back, like there's a whole truth trapped behind h

lk a

a

essed into the air itself, watching with that heavy kind of

the most da