Chapter 53 Eliana
ELIANA
crest: /krest/: verb
I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, mascara wand hovering an inch from my eye, trying to remember how this is supposed to work.
The problem isn’t that I’ve forgotten how to apply makeup. The problem is that I can barely see what I’m doing.
My vision has narrowed more and more over the past few days. What used to be a full field of view is now just a tiny circle of clarity surrounded by murky darkness. It’s like looking through a toilet paper tube, except the tube keeps getting smaller.
“Okay, Eliana,” I mutter to myself. “You can do this. It’s just mascara. You’ve been doing this since you were fourteen.”
I bring the wand up again—and miss completely. Black goop smears across my cheek.
“… Shit.”
Behind me, my apartment door flies open with a bang that makes me jump and streak more mascara across my face.
“We’re here!” Yasmin announces at full volume, bursting into my tiny studio. “And we, by which I mean ‘I,’ brought reinforcements.”
My mother follows behind her, carrying what looks like a professional makeup kit that’s definitely not hers. “I borrowed it from the salon where I’ve been working,” she explains as she sets it on my kitchen counter. “We figured you might need some help getting ready for tonight…”
I turn to face them, mascara wand still in hand, one eye halfway done and the other completely untouched. Black streaks zoom down my cheek.
Yasmin takes one look at me and bursts out laughing. “Oh, honey. No.”
“I had it under control,” I protest weakly.
“You’re lucky you didn’t put an eye out.” She plucks the mascara from my fingers. “Sit. Now.”
My mother pulls out my desk chair and pats it. “Come on, baby. Let us help.”
I want to argue that I can do this myself, I don’t need assistance, and I’m perfectly capable of getting ready for the most important night of my professional life without turning into a charity case.
But the truth is, I can’t see well enough to do my own makeup anymore. And tonight, of all nights, I need to look perfect.
So I sit.
Yasmin starts wiping away my failed mascara attempt with a makeup remover wipe while my mother opens the borrowed kit and begins laying out brushes and palettes like a surgeon prepping for an operation.
“Tell me again what you’re wearing,” Mom says.
“The burgundy dress. I showed you on FaceTime, remember?”
“The one that makes her look like a sexy vampire,” Yasmin adds helpfully.
I snort. “I do not look like a vampire.”
“A sexy vampire,” Yasmin corrects. “There’s a difference. Regular vampires are creepy. Sexy vampires get to bang Robert Pattinson.”
My mother laughs, which is such a welcome sound after so long without it. She’s been different since that night at the church. Granted, it’s only been a few days, but there’s a lightness in her that I haven’t seen in forever. It’s strange and wonderful and terrifying all at once.
“Close your eyes,” she instructs.
I feel the soft brush of primer on my eyelids, then the gentle press of eyeshadow.
She works slowly and carefully, humming under her breath.
It’s the same tune she used to hum when I was little and she’d brush my hair before bed—back before the Dereks and the wine and all the years that turned us into strangers. The same song from the day in the rain.
“‘Raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens…’”
Yasmin, meanwhile, has moved on to my nails. She’s painting them a deep wine color that matches my dress, all the while keeping up a steady stream of commentary about Zeke.
“He’s taking me to this place in Wicker Park next week.
Says it has the best duck confit in the city.
I told him I don’t even know what confit means, and he spent twenty minutes explaining it to me.
Twenty minutes, El. I didn’t know there was that much to know about ducks.
I thought it was pretty much ‘quack-quack’ and that’s it. ”
“Sounds romantic,” I mumble, doing my best to keep my face still so I don’t mess up Mama.
“It kinda was, actually. He gets this look when he talks about food. Like he’s describing a religious experience.” She pauses, and I can hear the grin in her voice. “Also, the sex is incredible.”
“Yasmin!” My mother’s scandalized laugh fills my tiny apartment.
“What? It’s true! And Eliana already knows. She walked in on us, remember?”
“I will never forget,” I mutter. “It’s seared into my brain like a bad tattoo.”
They both laugh, and I find myself laughing, too, even though my eyes are still closed and I can’t see their faces. This is nice. This is really, really nice.
My mother finishes with my eyes and moves to my lips. “Pucker,” she instructs. The lipstick glides on smooth and cool. “Perfect. Now, blot.”
I press my lips against the tissue she holds out.
“Okay,” Yasmin says, capping the nail polish. “Let your nails dry and then we’ll get you into that dress. But first—” She pauses dramatically. “Open your eyes.”
I do.
In my tiny bathroom mirror, I barely recognize myself. My eyes are smoky and dramatic, the burgundy shadow making the blue of my irises pop even through my failing vision. My lips are the exact shade of wine-dark roses. My skin looks flawless, glowing.
I look like someone who belongs at a gala. Someone important. Someone who has her shit together.
I look like Bastian Hale’s woman.
“Guys,” I whisper, “it’s beautiful.”
Mom is standing behind me. When I meet her eyes in the mirror, they’re damp. “You’re beautiful,” she says. “We just helped a little.”
Yasmin appears on my other side to rest her chin on my shoulder. “Okay, but can we talk about how Bastian is going to lose his entire goddamned mind when he sees you?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that,” Yasmin counters. “The man is obsessed with you. And you’re obsessed with him. It’s disgusting and adorable and everything I’ve ever wanted for you.”
My mother squeezes my shoulders. “Is he good to you, baby?”
I think about Bastian reading cookbooks to me when my eyes get too tired. Him describing paintings in my ear at the Art Institute. The way his hand hovers at the small of my back when we walk to make sure he can catch me if I fall.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s good to me.”
“Then that’s all that matters.” She kisses the top of my head. “Now, let’s get you in that dress.”
The dress is hanging on the back of my bathroom door. Yasmin retrieves it while I carefully stand, holding my hands straight out in front of me like Frankenstein to avoid smudging my fresh manicure.
It’s a deep burgundy velvet with a sweetheart neckline and a slit up one thigh. I found it at a boutique in Wicker Park two weeks ago and spent a mind-boggling amount of money on it without a single ounce of regret.
Yasmin helps me step into it, and my mother zips it up the back.
“Jesus Christ,” Yasmin breathes. “Okay, yeah. Sexy vampire confirmed.”
I turn to look in the mirror again, and even with my limited vision, I can see that the dress fits perfectly. It hugs my curves without being too tight, and the color makes my skin look like fresh cream.
My mother’s hands rest on my shoulders again. “You look just like you did at your high school graduation,” she says softly. “All grown up and ready to take on the world.”
I remember that day. Standing in a borrowed cap and gown, clutching my community college acceptance letter, while Mama cried in the audience. It was one of her good days. She was proud instead of bitter, present instead of checked-out.
“I’m scared,” I admit suddenly.
“Of what?” Yasmin asks.
“All of it. The gala. Bastian. The future.” I swallow hard. “What happens after tonight?”
My mother turns me around to face her. “You live, baby girl,” she says simply.
“You live as much as you can, for as long as you can. And when things get dark—” She pauses, and I know she’s not just talking about my vision.
“When things get dark, you remember that you’re stronger than you think. And you’re not alone.”
Yasmin wraps her arms around both of us. “Damn right she’s not alone. She’s got us.”
We stand there for a moment, the three of us tangled together in my tiny apartment, and I think about how much has changed. There’s more change yet to come. God, I’m going to miss being able to see their faces.
But even if I couldn’t, even if what little I had left went away right now, I’d still be able to feel their love.
And that’s enough.
“Okay.” I pull back and dab carefully under my eyes. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Yasmin grins. “That’s my girl.”
My mother hands me my shoes and my clutch. Yasmin double-checks that I have my phone, my keys, my lipstick for touch-ups. “Bastian’s picking you up at seven, right?” asks Yas.
I check my phone. 6:49 P.M. “Yep. Eleven minutes.”
“Perfect. That gives us just enough time for a shot.” Yasmin produces a bottle of tequila from her purse like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.
My mother raises an eyebrow. “None for me, thanks. You girls go ahead—I’ll supervise.”
We gather in my kitchen, and Yasmin pours two shots into mismatched glasses. “To Eliana,” she says, raising hers, “who’s about to knock ‘em dead at the fanciest party in Chicago.”
“To my daughter,” my mother adds as she pretends to loft a glass of her own, “who has always been stronger than she knows.”
I raise my own glass, my throat tight. “To family,” I say. “The one you’re born with and the one you choose.”
Yas and I clink glasses and throw back the shots. The tequila burns going down, but it’s a good burn. A warming burn.
They both hug me one more time, fussing with my hair and patting invisible wrinkles from my dress until I shoo them away. “Go,” I laugh. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“You better text me pictures,” Yasmin demands as she gathers her purse. “Like, a million of them!”
My mother cups my face in her hands. “Have fun, baby.”
“I will. I love you, Mama. Love you, Yas.”
“We love you, too,” they chorus.
They leave together, Yasmin’s chatter fading as they head down the hallway. I wait until I hear the building door close behind them before I grab my clutch and make my way downstairs.
At the bottom, the door to the outside world opens. I step through it, leaving behind the girl who was always afraid—and becoming, finally, the woman who isn’t.