Page 44 of Lucky 22

In my mind, I know I’m not a supermodel, but I also know Ihave more talent than many of the girls I compete against. It’s pointless towish I were taller, thinner, curvier, or had bigger boobs. Sure, those thingswould be nice, but it isn’t my focus. I don’t want to be known only for mylooks. I want people to look at me and remember my name because I’m talented.Because I put on a performance that touches them.

I want to be the best Ella Rose Holt I can be.

You look beautiful.

But when Christian looks at me and calls me beautiful, whileI know I don’t see it, he does. And that’s really incredible.

“Ella?” I hear Jen calling my name. “We’re gonna be late if we don’t leave now.”

“Coming!” And with that. I dash out of my room with a smileon my face, ready for a great night.

The room is already buzzing before the song evenstarts—music pulsing, laughter spilling over the fizzing sounds of soda cansbeing opened and the hum of conversation. Strands of colored lights are drapedacross the ceiling of Freya’s loft, making everything look fun and festive, andeveryone is in party mode.

We’re an hour in, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. Someoneinsisted on a round of karaoke—my friends never need much convincing—and nowI’m standing center stage, mic in hand, eyes sparkling with the mischievousconfidence that comes from pure joy and adrenaline and turning twenty-two.

The opening chords of “I Will Survive”blast through the speakers, and my friends erupt in cheers.

“Oh, this is one of my favorites!” I shout with pure joy.

Laughter echoes around me, and I am living my best liferight now. I spot Christian sitting at a table near the front, leaning back inhis chair, grinning. His gorgeous blue-eyed gaze never leaves me. It’s like heis completely transfixed. Like I’m the only thing worth seeing in the crowdedroom.

I am in my element, all energy and light, twirling my freehand in the air while singing into the mic with unapologetic joy. This is whatI’m good at. This is what I was born to do.

“At first I was afraid …”

The crowd claps along, and I throw myself into theperformance, half-singing, half-laughing, but feeling completely alive. When Icatch Christian’s gaze and take in his soft, proud smile, my heart does alittle somersault.

And then, midway through the second verse, the door opens.I’m looking right at it when it does, and it feels like a pathway appears outof nowhere. The energy shifts. Just slightly, but enough. And then I see him.

Jim.

He’s standing framed by the doorway, hands shoved into hisjacket pockets, that familiar half-smile on his face as I’m singing about howI’m somebody new.

My breath hitches for a second, because…come on. How ironicis that?

Maybe it’s muscle memory, or something braver, but I keepsinging. Louder this time. My chin lifts a little higher. The words that havealways felt like a fun karaoke anthem suddenly hit with weight, truth pulsingthrough every syllable.

Christian’s eyes are still on me. I can feel it. I wonder ifhe noticed the hitch or saw the change in me, the sudden renewed energy, andhow I’m standing a little straighter, even as my hand holding the mic tremblesslightly. I dance and twirl so I can find him again in the crowd. When I do,his expression is soft, and I can see pride and protectiveness mingling in hiseyes. It’s all I need to turn around and finish the song.

That’s when I notice poor Jim still standing near the door,clearly unprepared for what he walked into.

Meanwhile, I spin toward my friends, who are cheering evenlouder, clapping and dancing along with me. When I belt out the final line,laughing through it, I almost wish there were a few more verses.

But when the song ends, I drop into a playful bow. Theapplause is deafening.

And then Christian is there, already moving through thecrowd, reaching me just as I step down from the little stage. His hand findsmine, warm and sure.

“You,” he says quietly, with that smile that makes my kneesa little weak, “were incredible.”

I squeeze his fingers, breathless and laughing. “Thank you,”I say, throwing a quick glance toward the door where Jim was. “I’ve alwaysloved to sing, and that’s a fun song to do.” When I look a second time,Christian gives my hand a gentle tug.

“What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You keep looking at the door,” he says. “Is everythingokay?”

Ugh…