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Emory’s tongue slides across his bottom lip. “There will be no self-depreciating comments,” he says in an overly melodramatic nerdy voice.
I snort. “Don’t make fun of Bastian. He means well.”
Emory sets the pizza box in the center console and opens it. “I got two drinks because I didn’t want to spend lunch alone and I was hoping I’d have you for company.”
My heart does this little pitter-patter, and I stare at the Chevrolet logo on the glovebox. “I’m sure you have a line of ladies who would kill to eat lunch with you.”
“I do,” he says, taking a bite of pizza. “But they’re all stupid.”
“And what am I?” I ask, both terrified and thrilled to hear his answer.
He considers it for a moment, his eyes focusing on the little metal compass around his wrist. “You’re the only girl I like being around.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not in love with you,” I hear myself saying, even though my mind is far from my body, still reveling in what he just said. “Otherwise it’d be hard as hell to be in the same room with you.”
He smiles. “So what time should I pick you up for the dance?”
“The dance?” I sit back in my seat, shaking my head. “Wow, I almost forgot about that, and it’s tonight.”
“You … forgot?” Emory says slowly. I nod. “About the dance?” he asks as if needing clarification. “ … with me as your date?”
“Yep.” I shrug. Although the dance has been on my mind constantly since Emory offered to be my date, the moment I climbed into his car with him made every other rational thought slip my mind. So it’s not a total lie—I had forgotten, but just for a few minutes. “I guess I just haven’t thought much about it. I mean, my dress is hanging on my closet door, so I see it every day, but I completely forgot that I have to go home and get ready tonight.”
He sits back, peering at me with a sort of fascination. “Wow, Iz-la. There might be hope for you after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You’re doing this all wrong, you know,” Ciara says from my bedroom door. She enters and turns around so that her calves touch the footboard of my bed. She opens her arms and falls backward, her silky white homecoming dress fluffing up like a bridal photo shoot.
“Doing what wrong?” I ask, leaning forward in the tiny white chair that matches my vanity. I pull down my eyelid with one finger and apply eyeliner with the other hand.
“Homecoming.” She sits up on her elbows, her face scrunching in disapproval while she watches me apply makeup. “You’re supposed to book a hair and makeup appointment weeks in advice like I did, and then you get with friends and rent a limo and go out to dinner and all of that.”
“I’ve been there and done that,” I say, capping my eyeliner and shoving it back into my makeup bag. “Three years in a row, I did that. I’m glad we’re just playing it cool this year.”
Emory and I had agreed that he’d pick me up for the dance, and that was that. No limos, no expensive hair appointments. “Besides, you’re my only friend, and you’re doing the college guy experience tonight, so who would I share a limo with?”
Ciara’s eyebrows are absolute perfection, thanks to her makeup appointment. She lifts one of them and gives me a reproachful look. “Okay, first of all,” she says, holding up a sparkly manicured nail. “Of course I’ll be hanging out with you all night, you’re my girl, and secondly, your date Emory has more friends than anyone else in this school. You could have joined in on probably a dozen limo shares with his connections.”
“Really?” I ask, feeling an uncomfortable squirming sensation in my stomach. “Do you think he’s just embarrassed of me?”
I expect her to jump to my defense and deny it, but she just wobbles her head in an unconvincing no. “Who knows. I mean, you’re just as cute as the other girls he dates so who can tell what’s going on in that head of his? I just figured, since your whole goal in the support group is to have an authentic date, that he would have made it more authentic.”
“Don’t say that,” I say, realizing my lungs are starting to burn from how long I’ve been holding my breath. “This is just a stupid support group exercise. He probably didn’t book a limo because that’s what you do for real dates.”
She nods and examines her fingernails. “I guess fake real dates aren’t real dates. That makes sense.”
I apply my eyeshadow in the same way I’ve been practicing and then swipe on a layer of mascara. Ciara walks up behind me and runs her fingers through my hair, which is still down and in soft waves. “We can’t forget the real purpose of this night, Isla.”
Her eyes meet mine in the vanity mirror, and she offers me a small smile before turning her gaze back to my hair, which she separates into three sections. “This is a night of healing, not just a night of fun. I mean, we’ll totally have fun, but you know what I’m saying here. Emory is your fake date and Trey is the crazy hot college guy who is so out of my league. These aren’t real dates that are meant to be some romantic adventure that we’ll remember forever. Tonight is a mission. We’re doing this to get over our broken hearts. To heal and be whole again.”
I nod, drawing in a deep breath as I think over her words. “You’re absolutely right,” I say, finding that a smile comes easily. “All of the other dances I’ve been to in my life were times when I thought I was going with my soul mate. This will be a fun night, and that’s all. It’s actually kind of freeing.”
“Hell yeah it is,” she say
s, twisting my hair and tugging the pieces into place. “Hair tie?”
I reach into a glass bowl next to my makeup brushes and hand her one. She twists it into part of my hair as she works. “Trey is taking me to Fazoli’s for dinner and then we’ll meet up at the dance, okay?”
