Chapter 5 Imposters
Imposters
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you have two black eyes.”
It’s the first thing Emerson says when she walks into the room late the next afternoon. Her head is cocked, her hair windswept, and she’s frowning at Sage, who has just awoken from a much-needed nap.
“You’re too kind,” Sage grumbles as she sits up in bed.
She feels post-nap soupy, having passed out as soon as she got back from the convention center.
She’s used to the After Event Adrenaline Crash.
It was more intense today, what with the full signing line at the Javits Center, and while it wasn’t incredibly different from the other book events she’s done, there was something about taking a seat in front of a backdrop littered with Comic Con logos that had her heart swelling.
Emerson had tried to convince her to join the shopping spree after, saying something about VIP and Theo that Sage had purposefully ignored. From the multiple bags clutched in her hands, it seems Emerson managed just fine without her.
“I have eye patches in my suitcase,” her friend says as she drops the bags and begins digging through her luggage.
“I didn’t take off my makeup before I feel asleep.”
Emerson peers over at her, her nose scrunched as she blinks her bangs from her eyes. “No offense, babe, but this isn’t your makeup.”
“You keep saying you don’t mean to offend, but I’m starting to not believe you.
” It doesn’t stop her from picking up the package of eye patches Emerson tosses onto the duvet and dragging herself into the bathroom.
One glance in the mirror tells her Emerson is right—it’s definitely not her makeup that has her looking this haggard.
“I thought the nap would help,” she groans at her reflection.
Clearly, one good night of rest doesn’t erase Sage’s general proclivity for tossing and turning.
Emerson’s head peeks around the doorframe. “A hot shower, your cleansing routine, and eye patches. You’ll be good as new. I can order us some champagne?”
“I love you.”
“I know.” Emerson pauses. Grins. Sage freezes.
She knows that look.
“Whatever chaotic thing you’re about to say, save it.” Emerson’s eyes go wide, the picture of innocence. “I was only going to say that once you see the outfit I picked out for you, you won’t even worry about your face. No one will.”
Sage leans a hip against the counter, her arms folding over her chest as she faces her friend. “Do you ever hear the things that come out of your mouth? Like, do they actually register in your mind, or is it just a constant stream of consciousness going from your brain to your lips?”
Emerson steps into the doorway with a scowl. “I’ll have you know I’m famous at the firm for being outstanding at oral arguments.” She pauses again, lips parted in contemplation. “I’m also great at oral—”
“I’m taking a shower now,” Sage groans, shoving a grinning Emerson from the bathroom and slamming the door in her face.
“Theo is going to love your outfit!” she calls gleefully. Sage rolls her eyes. Emerson knows exactly which buttons she’s pressing. She’s been relentless about Theo all day.
He hadn’t responded to her simple thank you, which was fine, but Sage had felt … not quite awkward, but some sort of wriggly emotion in her stomach when she woke up.
Her vulnerability looks different in the light of day—glaring and strange and just this side of too much.
Foolish, even.
Complaining to an actual celebrity about people being mean on the Internet? She physically cringes each time she thinks about it.
“Don’t forget the eye patches!” Emerson yells as Sage turns on the shower.
She flips the lock on the bathroom door. “Can’t hear you, sorry!”
The handle jiggles. Emerson’s swearing is lost to the sound of water pounding down around her as she laughs her way into the shower.
“You look hot,” Emerson remarks, her eyes scanning Sage’s reflection in the full-length mirror appreciatively. She’s lying on the bed, a plate of chicken tenders and a basket of fries pushed to the side.
Sage grins at her before taking in her reflection again.
Sage may be the fashionista of the two, but Emerson outdid herself at whatever shop she’d found the short red dress that fits Sage like a glove.
Her hair is a cascade of loose, dark brown curls flowing down her back, her makeup dark and sultry in a way she typically doesn’t flaunt.
At least not at a work event.
She does look hot. It doesn’t stop her from biting on her lip as she smooths her hands over the fabric.
“You don’t think the red is too flashy, do you?”
It’s another fine line she walks: wanting to stand out but wanting to blend in. Being okay with a touch of spotlight as long as it’s one she’s set up herself in a place she’s familiar with, in a crowd that feels like home.
She wonders what it’s like to not live a life of balancing opposites.
Emerson shuffles her way into the bathroom, plucking the navy blue, sequined pantsuit she chose for herself from where it’s hanging on the door.
Her platinum hair is wavy in a messy, beachy sort of way that people would pay thousands for.
It’s done with just a touch of sea salt spray and a talent Sage isn’t sure where Em picked it up.
“Absolutely not,” Emerson answers from the bathroom as she changes. “It’s foxy. You were born to wear red.” A few moments later she steps out, looking like a celebrity herself. She hip checks Sage out of the way so she can take in her own reflection.
“Charlotte used to say the same thing,” Sage muses.
“Ugh,” Emerson groans. “Charlotte. Don’t miss her.”
“I thought you liked her?”
“You were pining, so I had to tolerate her.”
Sage is blatantly offended. “I was not pining!”
She makes a point not to pine. That was part of the Finance Fletcher phase. Anything part of the Finance Fletcher phase had to go. Pretty boys, pining, pretending to care anything about golf, etc.
Theo is technically in the pretty-boy category, her brain unhelpfully provides.
She takes that thought and strangles it.
“I know my worth,” Sage retorts. She grabs a chicken tender and bites into it. “I ended things when I realized we weren’t on the same page and Charlotte couldn’t give me what I needed.”
Technically, Charlotte beat her to the punch, but … whatever.
Emerson makes a thoughtful noise as she applies her lipstick in the mirror. “Right. That’s why you listened to your Sad Playlist for a month afterwards.”
“Excuse, I was listening to Noah Kahan because his vibe was perfect for the book.”
“Of course, of course,” Emerson assures her in the most unassuring way. “Don’t get grease on your dress.”
Sage frowns at her half-eaten chicken tender before tossing it back on the plate. She reaches for her discarded glass of champagne instead and downs it. “Keep it up, you’ll be going to the party by yourself,” she gripes.
Emerson’s grin is nothing short of evil. “Oh please. You know deep down you’ve been dying to go to this.”
“What, out of anything that I’ve said since Theo invited us, has given you that impression?”
“The fact that whenever anyone mentions his name, you blush like a teenager.”
“I do not!” Sage whips her head to the mirror to check her reflection. Her face is its normal olive hue, but she realizes she’s given herself away regardless.
“Interesting,” Emerson croons.
“You are, without a doubt, the worst friend in the world.”
“I’ll be sure to work that into my maid of honor speech at your and Theo’s wedding.”
“Fuck you.”
“Honestly, I’d prefer Taylor do that.”
Sage groans. “I regret ever meeting you.”
There’s a small line outside of Vibe, but aside from that, there’s nothing distinguishable about the club.
In fact, if it weren’t for the bouncers and the velvet rope and the people dressed as if it wasn’t freezing outside (Sage included), she would’ve guessed they were heading into a cleared-out bodega that hasn’t seen electricity in years.
Even still … she feels distinctly out of place. The bouncer has a headset and a guest list, and while she’s used to the type of unattainable beauty and success that surrounds her in LA, there’s something about this particular queue that makes Sage feel like her skin is stretched too tight.
She shifts from foot to foot, hopping in place—the best she can in heels, anyway—and blames it on the cold.
Emerson, of course, sees right through her.
“Stop acting like you’re gate-crashing,” Em hisses from beside her.
“I feel like we are,” Sage mutters as they move closer to the bouncer.
In hindsight, she probably should have confirmed their attendance with Theo.
She’s been to her fair share of clubs, but she’s not exactly sure what the etiquette is when you’re invited to a VIP shindig by a newly minted movie star.
Are you supposed to RSVP? Is she going to have to text Theo from outside the club like some sort of groupie and beg for entry?
Oh god. On the list of horrible ideas Sage has had—and she’s had plenty—she’s starting to think this might easily rank in the top five.
Top four.
Maybe even three.
Sage’s stomach somersaults as they reach the bouncer, and she braces herself to be turned away as Emerson gives their names, but then they’re through the door and into a dark hallway, the steady bump bump bump of house music filling the empty space.
There’s another door at the end of the hall with another security guard, and it dawns on Sage that she hasn’t been somewhere with this many checkpoints that isn’t the airport, like, ever.
But this guard just nods and opens the door, and then … they’re in.