13. Selene
13
Selene
C eleste and I are sprawled out on the living room floor, listening to some playlist she made filled with a ton of music we grew up listening to, sprinkled with some new music that’s so catchy it stays with us for weeks. Nail polish bottles are scattered between us like landmines waiting for Valkyrie to storm through like an overgrown toddler. She’s meticulously painting her Barbie pink nails, the shade so aggressively cheerful it almost offends me, while I attempt what was supposed to resemble a French tip but looks more like an abstract crime scene.
“You’re too tense,” Celeste says, blowing lightly on her nails. “Loosen up, Sel. It’s nail art, not brain surgery.”
I huff, glaring at my latest botched attempt. “Easy for you to say, Miss Perfect Nails. You could paint your nails on a roller coaster, and they’d come out flawless.”
She grins, tossing her long, golden hair over her shoulder with an effortless flick. It’s like she lives in a perpetual shampoo commercial, always backlit by some invisible, ethereal glow. If I didn’t love her, I’d probably hate her. Actually, that’s a lie. Celeste is one of the most kindhearted people I have ever known.
“What can I say? Perfection takes practice.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a warmth between us that I haven’t felt in a while. Celeste has been a whirlwind of energy ever since she got here—half little sister, half mastermind, entirely exhausting. But I’ve missed her. Even if she does have the attention span of a caffeinated butterfly.
“So,” she says, glancing at me slyly, her tone dripping with mischief. “When are we going to talk about him ?”
I freeze mid-swipe. It’s an instant kill shot. No lead-up, no warning. Just a direct hit
“Hmm?” I try, feigning confusion, pretending to get lost in the music and clumsily belt out a solo.
Ignoring my attempted distraction, her smile sharpens as her eyes gleam with victory. “I knew it! There is a him! The guy you’ve been daydreaming about every time you think I’m not looking. You get this dopey smile on your face.”
Before I can even contradict her, Valkyrie chooses violence, barreling through the nail polish battlefield like a wrecking ball. Bottles rattle, a few tip over, and Celeste shrieks, lunging to save her precious pink polish.
“VALKYRIE, NO!”
The dog stops mid-stride, tilting her head at Celeste like she’s offended by the volume. Then, as if to remind us of her true calling as an agent of chaos, she locks onto a metallic gold nail polish bottle, lunging for it like it’s a prize.
“Absolutely not,” I say, snatching it away just in time. Valkyrie huffs, plopping onto the floor in protest—right in the middle of everything.
Celeste glares at her. “Swear to God, you were a criminal in a past life.”
I stifle a laugh. “Technically, she was trained to sniff out crime.”
“Yeah, and she failed. Spectacularly.” Celeste points an accusatory finger at the dog. “How do you wash out of the TSA? What did you do, let a drug smuggler bribe you with treats?”
Valkyrie blinks, tilting her head in a way that asks do you really think I’m that dumb?
Celeste sighs dramatically, returning her attention to me. “Whatever, don’t think I didn’t notice that very convenient distraction. We’re not done here.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Oh my God, Celeste. Please drop it.”
“Oh, I will never,” she says, setting her nail polish down and scooting closer. “Spill. What’s the deal with Mr. Dreamy?”
I sigh, knowing there’s no escaping her. She’s like a golden retriever in designer heels—relentless in her enthusiasm and utterly immune to shame.
I groan, giving up any hope of escaping this conversation. “Fine. His name’s Theo. He’s… well, he’s pretty cool.”
“Pretty cool?” She presses, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. “What does ‘pretty cool’ mean?”
I hesitate, picturing him. Theo isn’t just good-looking—he’s a person who makes a room feel lighter just by being in it. He’s all easy smiles and warm eyes, the human embodiment of a golden retriever. He remembers people’s coffee orders, holds doors open without thinking, and somehow always knows exactly when someone needs a laugh.
“He’s funny,” I say, finally. “Not in a trying-too-hard way, just… naturally. He’s a guy who will slip a terrible pun into a conversation just to see if you’ll groan or laugh. And he’s always looking out for everyone. Like, if you mention once that you’re craving a certain type of candy, he’ll ‘randomly’ have some the next time he sees you. He just—he cares. A lot. And he doesn’t even try to hide it.”
Celeste hums in approval. “Hot and sweet? Go on.”
I exhale, fiddling with the nail polish brush. “He’s the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, but not in a needy way. He just… feels things deeply, you know? And he’s always taking care of everyone. If someone’s had a bad day, he’ll magically have their favorite drink waiting. He works ridiculous hours at the cafe, but if someone needs help moving furniture, suddenly he’s got all the time in the world.” I pause, swallowing. “And he’s a menace.”
Celeste perks up. “Oh?”
I nod, grinning despite myself, remembering the time he switched the sugar and salt at the cafe just to mess with his employees. “He’s a prankster. The harmless, goofy kind—like putting googly eyes on everything in the fridge or swapping people’s ringtones when they leave their phones unattended. He’s chaos, but the good kind. The kind that makes everything feel a little brighter.”
Celeste sighs dreamily. “Selene, you’re so far gone.”
Groaning, I shove my hands over my face.
Am I?
Yeah. I am.
I peek at her through my fingers. “Yeah. We’ve talked a few times, we hung out at the lake a week or so ago, and he let me sketch him. We then went on a really thoughtful date at his house the next day. His aunt, Aubrey, actually wrote his number on a napkin for me because somehow in all of that, I never got it from him.”
Celeste gasps, bolting upright so fast she nearly knocks over a bottle of nail polish. “Wait, wait, wait. Back up. He let you sketch him?!”
I nod, my face heating. “Yeah, he was really patient about it. Didn’t even fidget too much.”
Celeste’s eyes are practically sparkling. “Do you still have it? I need to see.”
I hesitate for a second before leaving to go grab my sketchbook, flipping to the page. Celeste snatches it the moment it’s in sight and gasps dramatically. “Selene. This is gorgeous—oh my God, look at his jawline. And the way you shaded his eyes?” She fans herself. “Girl, you are in it.”
I groan. “Stop.”
Celeste wiggles her eyebrows, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Nope, you’re done for.”
I snatch my sketchbook back before she can make it worse. Celeste sighs, flopping back against the couch. “Alright, alright. So, what did he say when you texted him?”
I freeze. Silence stretches between us.
Celeste narrows her eyes. “You did text him, right?”
My face betrays me before I can even think of lying. I feel the heat creeping up my neck, burning like I’ve just been caught red-handed in a crime I didn’t even know I was committing.
Celeste shrieks. “You haven’t texted him yet? Selene!”
“I’m scared!” The words burst out of me before I could stop them. My voice pitches higher, full-on panic mode activated. “What if he thinks I’m weird because I got his number from his aunt? Or desperate?”
Celeste blinks at me, her green eyes wide like I just told her I believe in Bigfoot. Then she leans forward, voice sweet but firm. “First of all, he already knows you’re weird. That ship has sailed, sunk, and been turned into an artificial reef. And second, his aunt gave you his number. That’s like the universe personally handing you a cheat code. Clearly, he’s into it.”
I hesitate, chewing on my bottom lip. “What would I even say?”
Celeste, bless her soul, snatches my phone out of my hand before I can react. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
I immediately start to worry.
She scrolls through my contacts with laser focus like this is the most important mission of her life. Then, her entire face lights up. Oh no.
“How about…” She pauses for dramatic effect, then grins wickedly. “‘Are you French? Because Eiffel for you.’”
I groan, grabbing a couch cushion and smothering my face with it. “Celeste, no.”
“Come on!” She sings songs, waving my phone in front of me like a carrot on a stick. “It’s cheesy, it’s adorable, and it’ll totally break the ice.”
I reach for the phone, but she jerks it out of my grasp, her expression innocent despite the fact that she’s actively holding my social life hostage.
“Celeste…” I warn.
“Selene,” she mimics, her voice dripping with faux seriousness. “Trust me. He’ll love it.”
I glare at her. She grins wider. I hate that she’s probably right.
Snatching my phone back, I stare at the screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is a mistake. This is such a mistake.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter.
“You’re doing this,” Celeste confirms, entirely too pleased with herself.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type out the message and hit send.
And then I throw my phone across the couch like it’s suddenly radioactive.
Me: Are you French? Because Eiffel for you.
We stare at my phone in silence, the seconds dragging like hours. This was a mistake. A catastrophic, world-ending mistake. Maybe if I delete my number and move to another country before he reads it, I can escape the shame.
Then—my phone buzzes.
Theo: That depends, who is this?
Celeste bursts out laughing, clapping her hands like a delighted seal. “He doesn’t even know it’s you.”
“Oh no,” I whisper, staring at the screen in horror. This is it. This is my villain origin story. “What do I do now?”
“Tell him it’s you!” she says, nudging me. “Or keep him guessing. Either way, he replied, so you’re already winning.”
I chew my lip, debating. If I tell him right away, it’ll be normal. Predictable. Safe. But if I play along a little longer…
I quickly type a response.
Me: Someone who’s heard you have moves in the kitchen. Care to show me?
His reply is almost immediate.
Theo: So you’re trying to see my baguette? Bold. But just so we’re clear—there will be zero painting tutorials involved this time.
I let out an embarrassing snort, and Celeste grabs my arm, practically vibrating. “Wait—what does that mean?”
I launch into the full, fantastic retelling of our first date—the Bob Ross disaster, the once-promising landscape turned into a scene straight out of a horror film, the way Theo had flung his hands in exasperation and somehow managed to get streaks of blue and green in his hair.
“Oh my God, Sel! He knows it’s you, he’s flirting back!”
Of course, he remembers. How could he forget? One minute, we were following along with Bob Ross, and the next, his trees looked like melting broccoli, and he’d somehow managed to get paint in his hair. He was determined to make ‘happy little trees,’ and the next, they looked like they were screaming for help. I swear, I blinked, and it was everywhere.
My heart does a weird little flip, and I press my phone against my chest to stop myself from grinning like an idiot. “What do I do now?”
“You invite him over, obviously,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Your first date was at his place, bring the date to your place this time.”
Taking a deep breath, I send him my address before typing out another message. I know he already has it but I don’t want to assume.
Me: My kitchen, tomorrow evening. Don’t disappoint me, Boulanger.
Another buzz.
Theo: I’ll be there.
As soon as I read his text, I drop my phone onto the couch like it’s on fire, staring at it as if it might explode. Did I really just invite Theo over to my place? To bake? Me? Baking? In front of a man who can actually cook?
Celeste is practically bouncing in her seat, eyes sparkling with pure, unfiltered chaos. “This is the best thing that’s happened all week. You’re going to bake, you’re going to flirt, and he’s going to fall for you so hard he won’t know what hit him.”
“Or I’ll burn the cookies, and he’ll never speak to me again,” I mutter.
Celeste waves me off. “Oh, please. I’ll make sure the fire extinguisher’s handy. And if things get too hot in the kitchen—” she waggles her brows “—just remember, I support all life choices.”
I groan, shoving a pillow at her, but I’m already laughing despite the nerves twisting in my stomach. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.
Celeste flops back onto the couch, stretching like a cat. “You know, I don’t get why you didn’t follow me into music. You’ve got the voice for it.”
I snort, reaching for a bottle of polish that somehow escaped Valkyrie’s destruction. “Please. You’re the one who has all the performing genes. I can’t even hum a song without sounding like a dying goose.”
She gasps, affronted. “Lies! I just listened to you sing as a way to try and distract me! You’re way better than you think.”
I roll my eyes, but her words spread a warmth in my chest. “Even if that were true, I like sketching. Art is my thing. It makes sense in my head in a way performing never did.”
Celeste hums, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I get that. Creating something from nothing, bringing an idea to life—it’s like songwriting, I guess. Different medium, same magic.”
I smile at that. “Yeah, exactly.”
She turns to me, her expression softer now. “Okay, so if you could do anything—like, no limits, no ‘but what ifs’—what would you want to do with your art?”
The question catches me off guard. I’ve always drawn, always sketched, but I’ve never really thought about it in those terms. It’s always just been mine . A way to see the world differently.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I think… I’d want to do work that lasts. Work that makes people feel deeply. Like, when you look at a painting, and it just hits you, you know?”
Celeste nods, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. That’s how I feel when I hear a song that just gets me.”
For a moment, we just sit there, the usual teasing giving way to a quieter moment, unspoken but understood.
Then she ruins it.
“Okay, but if you did start a band, you’d totally have to be the mysterious, brooding artist type. I can see it now: dark eyeliner, tragic backstory, only speaking in poetic metaphors—”
I groan, chucking a nail polish bottle at her. “Oh my God, Celeste.”
She cackles, throwing her head back but still somehow dodging the flying bottle effortlessly. “I’m just saying! We’d make a great duo.”
Valkyrie, as if in agreement, lets out a low woof before dramatically flopping onto her side.
I shake my head, laughing. “I’ll stick to sketching, thanks.”
“Fine, fine,” Celeste concedes. “But when you inevitably change your mind, I get to be your manager.”
“Deal,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But only if you promise to stop trying to set my love life on fire.”
She grins. “No promises.”