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“You’re right. The show will be fine,” I whisper. I kiss her temple and feel her relax against me.
“Lynds,” I murmur, “Have you ever been to the MET?”
We walk to the MET, and it feels like a real date. Lyndsey wears high-waisted jeans and an army green crop top; one of my chains sits loose around her neck. She’s gorgeous. I’m wearing shorts and an old Descendants T-shirt.
It’s early September, and the first hints of fall fill the air. The few trees that line the streets are starting to lose their leaves. Lyndsey grins when she sees the iconic steps of the MET looming in the distance, and I know it’s taking all her effort not to sprint up them like Rocky.
We walk up the steps hand-in-hand, and Lyndsey’s jaw drops when we enter the lobby.
“This is insane,” she mutters as I pay for our tickets.
“Are you not a fan of museums?” I ask.
“I love a good museum; it’s just I’m realizing that we’re in a building that probably contains a billion dollars’ worth of fine art. And it’s all just sitting there, y’know?”
“It’s waiting to be appreciated by someone as hot as you,” I joke.
Lyndsey elbows my ribs, and we wind our way through the galleries. We pause to observe Van Gogh’s and Duchamp’s pieces that, until this point, Lyndsey has only seen in books.
My favorite part is the Rothko room. I saw it the first time I ever went to New York, and I’ve thought about it ever since. Something about the wash of colors lapping over each other feels like how it feels to play music, this odd kaleidoscope that a person’s been tasked with translating. Lyndsey studies each painting intently, placing her hand on her hip.
“I wish I could paint,” she says.
“What’s stopping you? You’re still young!”
“I can’t draw a stick figure,” Lyndsey says.
“Well, you don’t know until you try!”
“What’s making you so optimistic?” Lyndsey asks as I sneak up behind her and loop my arms around her waist.
“I dunno. I’ve just been feeling good about things lately,” I murmur into her hair.
Chapter 9
Lyndsey
New York, NY
After the MET, Vince begs me to let him take me out to dinner.
“C’mon! Everyone else is busy tonight! We can finally have a proper date!” He exclaims.
“I don’t have date clothes!” I say, again suddenly nervous.
“Whatever you wear, you’ll be the hottest person there by a mile. C’mon, let me show you a good time. Please?” Vince begs, clasping his hands together.
“Fine,” I say. I want to go, but part of me is terrified.
I’m not exactly a fine-dining person. I think of the dozens of other women Vince has dated in the past, the socialites and actresses who grew up going to prep schools and galas.
What if Vince takes me out and realizes I’m a nobody? What if it’s a painstaking comedy of errors where I use the incorrect fork because I’m a glorified California hick?
Still, Vince looks so excited. When I returned to my hotel room, I dug through my suitcase, unearthing the one dress I had packed in case we ever went anywhere nice.
It’s black, with cut-outs along the sides and an open back. The skirt hits mid-thigh, and I tug it closer to my knees. Unwillingly, the structured top pushes my tits up. I can’t tell if I look hot or if I look like this dress took me hostage and stuffed me inside.
I don’t wear a ton of makeup, if any. I almost consider knocking on Priya’s door and asking to borrow some eyeliner, but that would require telling Priya that Vince and I are going on a date.
