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He might not get out of it on the other side. I don’t care what the statistics say about his chances for full remission. Because I know very well that when it comes down to a real person, not a number in a spreadsheet, the chances are binary. He either lives or…
I wince.
“Did I pull too hard?” The stylist apologizes, but I wave her concerns away, so she shuts up. Thank God for that.
Shit. I need to focus on tonight. Thank God, my brother’s social media manager, Mila, was able to take on the coordination of the event. She dove in at the last minute with expertise and enthusiasm, relieving me of the biggest headache.
She is a bit too cheerful for my taste, and I think she’s not faking it, which is weird. Gina, my brother’s wife, advocated for her a bit too eagerly, and I suspect Mila’s motivation is purely financial. The woman needs any job she can get. But she delivers, so who cares?
“Do you have any vision regarding your makeup?” the stylist asks. I should probably remember her name, but I don’t.
I make it a point every year to hire someone new. These people are too chatty and nosy, so I don’t want a regular.
“Let’s go natural.”
“Is that your gown on the bed?”
I nod.
“It’s beautiful. Who is it?”
Here we go. “It’s rented, but I think it’s Stella McCartney.”
My lips curl up at her expression. “Rented?”
“Yes. I don’t like to spend money on unnecessary things.”
If I’d just grown three heads, she wouldn’t be this stunned. Frozen, she stares at me in the bathroom mirror. She probably doesn’t get to meet clients who don’t trip over themselves to wear a designer, tailored-made outfit to big social events.
It’s not that I don’t like fashion or that I can’t afford to buy a dress. But intimately knowing so many areas where the money is truly needed, I can’t spend it on something so useless as a dress I would wear once.
“Could we move on?”
Red-faced, she turns back to finish my makeup.
Half an hour later, I walk the woman to the door, and she peeks at the dress again. Seriously, I’m as vain as any other woman, but by the looks of it, she would accept the situation easier if she thought I had stolen the gown.
As I open the door to shove her out finally, my eyes meet the smoldering gaze across the hallway. My neighbor leans against his doorway, saying goodbye to a young woman who is smiling at him from the elevator bank.
“Good afternoon, neighbor.” Dominic’s voice, like honey and poison, floats through the air.
I respond with a glare—my ability to act mature around that man is seriously concerning—and I shut the door.
I tap my foot. The encounter stirred me the wrong way. Not because he was seeing out his date—in the afternoon—or because it’s the same hussy who left his place the morning after our last encounter in the hallway. I’m just generally irritated by his presence.
Seriously, why is he always around when I have a breakdown? Goddammit. My previous neighbor was a bitch, a nosy old lady, but this is worse. And that girl, Jesus, she is too young for him.
Why do I care?
Though I must admit that the legal—unsolicited—advice he provided for the hospice came at the right time and was helpful. Which reminds me of two things. I need to thank him. Ugh. And I’ll have to face Felicia Warren tonight.
By the time I get to the venue, annoyance has flourished into irritation. Not for one particular reason. Just all of them together, including the tingling feel in my stomach I usually feel in anticipation of the silent auction.
The evening starts off without a hitch, and as I mingle, I realize a natural smile lingers on my face. I’m actually having a good night, the ire lingering in the background only.
“Enjoying yourself? I love your dress.” I join my sister Sydney at the bar. She came with her boyfriend, who bought two ten-thousand-dollar tickets for them. Of course, Syd attends every year, but since she can’t afford the ticket, she comes as a volunteer. This year is different.
Her eyes linger on her boyfriend, Hunter, as he laughs at something with our brother, Massi. Gio is there too, with his phone, of course.
