Chapter 39 Celeste
Celeste
Idon’t think I’ve ever felt this alive.
My skin feels lit from the inside out, and my pulse still chases the high of the cheap stage lights and a mic that took a piece of me. Every time I catch Lucian’s gaze, my stomach flips. He doesn’t even have to say anything; the look in his eyes makes my knees go misty.
Is that a thing? Probably not. Oh well.
I lift the drink someone sent over and grin.
It’s been forever since something like this happened to me, and a feeling of nostalgia sweeps through me.
It’s the perfect balance of sweet and fruity, with a tiny bite.
Linkin’s laugh cuts through the table, and Shiloh’s half-smile tucks the moment into something ordinary and safe.
I’ve missed this: the teasing, the warmth, the small normal of being with people who know the work.
Under the warmth, there’s a wrongness I can’t name, a thin thread I shove behind the music.
I tell myself it’s adrenaline and sugar, and for a second, I believe it, because believing is easier than naming the heat crawling up my neck.
My pulse drums too loud; my mouth is cotton-dry even with a fresh ice water at my lips.
The lights seem too sharp, like someone turned the contrast up on the world, and I laugh a little too high at Linkin’s joke, the sound wobbling at the edges.
I stand, needing to move, moving feels like doing something sensible, and because the idea of cold water on my skin is suddenly urgent. “Be right back,” I call, voice bright and a touch breathy, and place my phone at the table as I slide out of the booth before anyone can say anything.
Lucian’s hand brushes my thigh as I pass.
I flash him a grin that’s more flutter than smile and squeeze his shoulder, trying to hide the tremor in my fingers with a practiced, tipsy looseness.
His brow tightens, nothing gets past him, but he lets me go.
I try to walk a straight line down the aisle, humming the chorus under my breath, telling myself I’ll splash my face and be back before anyone notices.
The hallway to the bathrooms is both cooler and dimmer.
I catch myself in the mirror and blink at myself.
My face is flushed, cheeks hot like I’ve been standing too close to a heater.
I lift my chin, squint at my eyes, and for a stupid second, I worry about mascara smudges.
Then I notice my pupils, too big in the glass, dark and blown out, and a small, ridiculous part of my brain asks if pupils are supposed to look like that after a drink and a half.
Still, there’s a prickle crawling up the back of my neck I can’t quite shake.
The tile under my palms is deliciously cold.
I splash water on my face and laugh at the way the droplets bead on my skin, like someone turned the world up a notch.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline crash, or the drink was stronger than it tasted.
I press my palms to my cheeks, and the heat under my skin feels wrong, like I’m burning from the inside out.
A toilet flushes behind me, and the stall door creaks open.
“Hey sweetie—are you okay?” a voice asks.
I glance up in the mirror at the woman as she steps out, tall and willowy with a sheet of copper-red hair that catches the low bathroom light and gleams. She’s pretty, in that effortless way some girls just are—clean jeans, a soft sweater, freckles across a sharp nose.
My brain flickers with recognition, though I can’t pin where I’ve seen her.
At the bar earlier? Somewhere else? My stomach flips, unsettled. I need to get back.
“Yeah,” I say automatically, dabbing my face with a paper towel. “Just a little hot.”
“You were great out there earlier. It was really… moving.”
“Thanks.” My tongue feels thick; my pulse hammers like a drum. I force a laugh that comes out too bright.
She steps closer and hands me another paper towel. “You’re really not looking well. Where are your friends? Do you want me to grab them for you?”
I shake my head and regret it instantly when the room tilts. “I’m fine,” I mutter, though fine isn’t quite right. My arms feel heavy, and my knees soft.
“Careful,” she says softly.
I push off the counter to straighten up, and my legs wobble. The edges of the mirror blur; dark spots creep in at the corners of my vision. I blink hard, trying to clear it, but the blink hangs.
“You don’t look fine,” she says again, and the way she watches me makes something cold skitter down my spine.
Panic licks at my ribs. “Lucian—” I try to call, but it comes out thin, a whisper that barely leaves my throat.
Her head tilts, and a satisfied smile crosses her lips.
Then the floor tilts for real.