Chapter 48
48
Natalie
T he closer I get to my room, the more conviction I have about what I want to do next.
Except when I get there, Sonya, Ivy, and Reggie are standing in front of the door.
“What is this?” I ask. “An intervention?”
“No,” Sonya says at the same time Ivy says, “Yes,” and Reggie says, “Not exactly, but?—”
They all clamp their mouth shut.
“We want to take you somewhere special. To celebrate. You know. The first week of—events.”
“I can’t,” I say, reaching past Ivy to unlock my door and push inside.
“You can,” she says.
They follow me in without waiting for an invitation.
“Natalie,” Sonya says to my back as I pull my small suitcase from the closet, toss it onto the bed, and begin filling it haphazardly with my stuff. “You want to come with us.”
“You don’t want me to come with you,” I tell her. “You want me to pack this suitcase, go to New York, and tell Preston how I feel about him.”
All three of their mouths fall open.
“Don’t look so surprised,” I say sternly. “You knew this was coming, didn’t you?”
Ivy winces. “We might have…thought…”
“No,” Sonya says. “I mean, I hoped it was. I’d never seen Preston smile before you two started working together. If you’d told me I’d watch Preston wield a Nerf blaster and yell, ‘Yippee-ki-yay,’ I would have laughed my ass off. So I was rooting for you two. But I’d be lying if I said I thought the writing was on the wall. Relationships are way more complicated than that. And he does live in New York.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t know if I can convince him to give this a shot.”
They exchange another glance.
“I think you can,” Sonya says. “I really do. But…before you do that, come with us to do this…thing…and then if you still think you need to go to New York, we’ll drive you to the airport.”
“What kind of thing?” I ask, cocking my head because now that I’ve decided to put everything on the line, I want to get it over with. In case he says no. Which he probably will, despite Sonya’s optimism. He’ll probably take one look at me and pat me kindly on the head and go back to whatever spreadsheet he’s making.
Another round of looks. “It’s like a?—”
“A concert ,” Ivy says.
Sonya frowns.
“You got me Taylor Swift tickets!” I tease.
“I wish ,” Sonya breathes. “No. Don’t get your hopes up for anything like that. Nothing, you know, huge or expensive. Just—we wanted to do something nice for you. And…we’re going to do your hair and makeup. For the concert-thing.”
“Concert-thing,” I repeat, eyes narrowing. “Come on, guys, what’s going on?”
“Can’t answer that,” Reggie says, giving a steely look to her friends. “Go. Get in the shower, wet your hair, and plant your ass in this chair.” She indicates the desk chair.
My eyes narrow. “You don’t think I can do my own hair and makeup?”
“You’re going to turn down the opportunity to have it done by trained professionals?” Reggie asks.
“For a ‘concert-thing’?” I tease.
“This isn’t just any ‘concert-thing,’” Ivy says. “Take my word for it. You want the full treatment.”
Which is why, a few minutes later, having swiftly showered, I’m sitting in a hotel desk chair having my hair and makeup done by my friends, trying to guess where they’re taking me.
“Is it one of those picnic-in-the-park events?” I ask. There’s a whole series on the Rush Creek green in the summer. Local bands play, and you can spread out a blanket or chairs and listen. It would definitely qualify as a concert-thing.
“Um,” Ivy says. “Maybe more thing and less concert than that.”
“Good, because I was starting to get afraid we were going to see one of those rock legends of the eighties performing live at the local casino.”
“Hey,” Reggie says grumpily. “There was good music in the eighties.”
She’s a little older than the three of us. Not old enough to have listened to a lot of music in the actual eighties, but old enough to have heard a lot more of it than the rest of us.
“You’re not taking me to see Hamilton , right?” I ask.
“Nope,” Sonya confirms. “Now stop trying to guess, because we’re not going to tell you.”
Reggie fusses over my face, and Sonya piles my curls on my head, and Ivy mopes over the meager contents of my closet, saying, “Seriously, Natalie, you own exactly one summer dress?” To which Reggie says, “We’re fixing that first thing tomorrow.”