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MORE THAN ONE WAY TO TELL A STORY
Jules
I’m pretty sure my little apartment isn’t even technically a one-bedroom. The broker dubbed it a “junior” one-bedroom when I rented it. But that’s just real estate slang for “there’s a corner somewhere in here that lets us call it an alcove.”
That evening, four women jam into my alcove, including me.
Well, I am the keeper of the wigs, so we’re getting ready here for tonight’s karaoke and dancing.
“Check me out,” Layla says, adjusting a blunt purple wig that gives her serious anime vibes.
“You look like a fairy,” Harlow declares.
“A badass fairy,” Layla corrects, tapping Harlow’s nose.
“But of course,” Harlow seconds, flicking a few strands of hair in her long, curly cherry-red wig. “And now I’ll learn if redheads really do have more fun.”
Camden clears her throat while twirling a strand of her natural hair, all copper and shiny “Oh they do, honey. They definitely do,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “Right, Cam. Right.”
“Or maybe brunettes do, Jules,” Cam says with a hint ofI know what you did last night.
Since, well, she does.
We worked out together earlier, on side-by-side ellipticals at the gym, and I told her pretty much everything. I’m not sure if I’ll say anything to Harlow and Layla, but only because I don’t want to overshare. I don’t want to blab either. If I said something, would it come back to hurt Finn? Or me?
No idea. But for now, I just want to have fun with the girls, trying on wigs before we head out.
The distraction helps too. I need it, badly. I’ve been thinking about Finn pretty much nonstop since I left his home eleven hours ago and wishing I could see him again. I knew the boundaries when I went over to his place, but my brain is wired to overthink. A few more days and I probably won’t think about him again. Until then, I’ll keep extra busy.
I wedge past Layla to look for just the right style for tonight.
“Where’s Billie Eilish?” Camden demands as she hunts through my wigs too.
“Top shelf. Right side,” I answer as I grab Lady Gaga from her Styrofoam head.
“Wait. The wigs have names?” Layla cuts in, clearly delighted. “Who’s mine?”
“Katy Perry,” I say, as I grab my electric blue wig, then tug it on over the wig cap I’m wearing.
“And who does Harlow have on?”
“Pink. Cam named that one.” As I adjust Lady Gaga, my phone buzzes with a text.
Might be my dad confirming our mutual fund discussion time tomorrow. Gee, I just can’t wait. But I also have to deal with it, so once my wig is on, I pull my phone from my pocket.
It’s Hank, the doorman, letting me know there’s a delivery for me and he’ll bring it up since he needs to take something to my neighbor too. Huh. I’m not expecting anything. It might be chocolate from my mom, or maybe even a wine she’s had overnighted from the festival she’s at. She’s been known to do things like that.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, and when I open the door, Hank hands me a pink bag with black stripes.
“Here you go, Miss Marley.”
It’s from You Look Pretty Today, and I know it’s definitely not from my mother.
I turn around, bag in hand. There’s no hiding this gift. My skin prickles both with excitement and worry.
