CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
LINA
R emember that rumor mill I talked about?
Yeah, well, it’s come back around full circle.
Had I noticed how Meredith was scarily skinny? Of course I had.
But it’s become abundantly clear throughout the past semester and a half that I really have no idea what happened in the apartment during the year I was gone.
On one hand, I knew it wasn’t my place to come back, guns blazing, throwing those kinds of strong accusations around when I myself wasn’t even ready to reveal the skeletons in my closet.
Yet, on the other hand, I’ve known in my gut that something was wrong. For months. And I said nothing.
That’s the guilt that’s gnawing at me. And my brain is mistaking it for anger.
Grant texted me saying he and Braxton found Meredith at the bar. I’m trying to ignore the way that makes my stomach sink.
Because of course I want to find her. I want to see her with my own eyes and make sure she’s okay.
I’m standing backstage with Savannah because tonight is her night. She’s been working for this for so long. Her name is on every outfit. Her brand is plastered front and center all over this place.
I don’t have the option to split myself down the middle.
“You can go find your seat,” Savannah tells me. “The show starts in five minutes.”
Eyeing her, I try to sense whether she’s just saying that or if she really means it. “Are you sure? I can stay.”
She gives me a reassuring nod, slipping in a new pair of earrings.
In the past thirty minutes, she’s already changed her outfit three times before I offered her the black satin gown I was wearing.
At first, Savannah refused to take it, but I saw the way her eyes lingered on me a little too long. Instead of trying to convince her, I simply slipped into the dressing room alongside her and started getting undressed.
“You designed this dress. It’s yours, anyway,” I told her. “Find me something to change into. I’m just sitting in the crowd, so what I’m wearing really doesn’t matter.”
Now, I’m wearing her backup: a soft blush slip dress with lace detailing along the hem and neckline. It’s beautiful, obviously, because everything Savannah touches is, but it doesn’t feel like me.
Still, I’d wear a trash bag if it meant she felt good walking out there.
The only issue is the cleavage situation currently happening. “Are my boobs going to fall out?” I ask her, pulling up the neckline again.
Savannah and I are technically the same size when it comes to regular clothes, but this dress was perfectly designed for her body. My slightly broader rib cage makes it so that what would hug her curves is barely containing mine.
It’s not a huge deal. I just wouldn’t want to take away her spotlight because I accidentally flashed someone’s grandma in the front row.
“No, you’ll be good.” She waves me off. “I’m sure Grant will love it.”
“Not my number one concern right now, Sav.” I snort, grabbing my purse.
She grins anyway. “Doesn’t mean it’s not a bonus!”
I feel a lot better about leaving her backstage now that the nerves have started to lessen from her eyes.
“Find me afterward,” I tell her, wrapping her in a quick hug when the stage director yells a two-minute warning. “You’re going to kill it.”
She gets pulled away, already nodding at someone calling her name, and I slip through the curtain toward the general admission entrance.
It’s everything Savannah would want for her debut fashion show—marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and glittering chandeliers. Rows of chairs surround the catwalk, and behind it is a giant screen projecting different Savvy by Savannah projects before the show starts.
The instrumental music thrums through my mind as I scan the rows of seats, looking for where Grant said he’d be saving me one. Thankfully, I spot him and the rest of my friends right as the lights start to dim, casting a soft glow over the catwalk.
Every seat I pass is occupied, and there’s a quiet buzz throughout the room. Rumored whispers. Excited knees bouncing. Cameras are already flashing.
Even as I take my seat next to Grant, noticing Meredith sitting with Braxton a few seats away, I know I did the right thing.
Meredith has what she needs right now.
Grant’s arm automatically wraps around the back of my seat, gripping my shoulder in a possessive way that has his entire hand splaying over my collarbone. His fingertips lightly graze where I’m nearly spilling out of this dress.
That’s when he leans over, eyes dragging over my body even as the lights dim even lower. “You’re lucky there’s a show about to start,” he murmurs in my ear, low enough for only me to hear. “Or else I’d be making a scene.”
I glare at him. “It’s Savannah’s backup dress,” I whisper, once again pulling on the neckline.
He grabs my hand, stopping me. I can feel him grinning at me. “Backup for who? A Bond girl?”
“Be serious.” Still, I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting a smile.
“I am.”
Before either of us can say anything else, the music gets louder, and the first model walks onto the runway.
* * *
I’ve never been in this situation before. One where I’ve been forced to ignore someone else’s problem for this long.
Sure, I’m a pro at ignoring my own issues—and I’m horrible at knowing how to approach other people’s emotions—but that doesn’t make me some cold-hearted bitch.
Like everyone else in our friend group, I was forced to sit through Savannah’s fashion show knowing there was a huge problem at hand—knowing one of my best friends has been struggling with something inconceivable.
And all I’ve been thinking is, God, where has my brain been?
Applause rings through the room when Kara is the last model to walk the runway before Savannah comes on the stage, smiling from ear to ear. I watch her grab Kara’s hand as she passes by, pulling her back down to the end of the catwalk.
Hand-in-hand, the two it girls of New York City—and Yale—walk the runway together.
And there’s no mystery as to why their mothers modeled together for so long.
There isn’t a doubt in my mind that by this time tomorrow, a picture of these two, shoulder to shoulder, is going to be one of the most iconic photos circulating.
Everyone is standing while Kara waves for Savannah to bow. It's one of the most heartwarming things I’ve ever seen.
Then, with a hand pressed to her heart, Savannah makes her way back down the stage, the perfect finish to her first-ever fashion show.
Within minutes, people begin flooding out of the room, our friend group included. Savannah already announced when the Notes of New Haven article dropped she wasn’t going to stay for the after-party. Not when there’s a pressing issue like this at hand.
On the car ride back, Grant and I ride with Eden, while Meredith goes with Braxton.
“Did you know her mom's a doctor?” Eden suddenly asks as we pull into the parking lot of our apartment complex. It’s the first thing any of us have said since leaving the venue.
“She never told me that.” Or maybe I just never bothered to ask.
Eden is the type to ask these questions, though. She wants to know things about people. Except now, I can see that it’s eating her alive.
“I guess I figured if something was really wrong, then she would be the one to question it. Who am I to accuse her of something like that when her mother is a highly trained healthcare professional?”
“There wasn’t a way for any of us to know, Eden.” My voice cracks when I add, “She didn’t want us to know.”
Grant doesn’t say anything. He just rests a comforting hand on my shoulder. I know he feels guilty about this situation too, but he doesn’t have a reason to in the way Eden and I do.
We’re her roommates. We’ve gone about our lives, seeing and talking to her every day like normal, having no clue she was going through something like this.
“She and Braxton beat us back,” Eden says, pointing toward Braxton’s parked BMW as we climb out of her car.
“I just want to talk to her,” I whisper, already darting toward the lobby’s entrance.
My head spins in a dangerous whirlpool the whole way up to our apartment. The only thing keeping me from going on an angry rampage is Grant’s comforting hand on the back of my neck.
Still, I probably enter the apartment with a little too much force. The place looks as though it’s been turned upside down. One of the barstools is flipped, and there’s a broken glass near the sink. The second of the six to be broken this year.
Shit.
We’ll worry about it later.
The air feels thick. Like it’s not being used because everyone is holding their breath. Suddenly, this already-tight dress feels even more constricting.
Grant steps in behind me, scanning the space with quiet alarm, while Eden freezes in the doorway, her hand tightening around the strap of her purse.
There’s movement down the hall. A soft thud, a door creaking open.
And then Braxton appears, his expression unreadable. His knuckles are red, like he’s either punched something or held onto it too tightly for too long.
“She’s in her room,” he says, voice rough. “Says she doesn’t want to talk.”
“I don’t care,” I say before I can stop myself. My voice isn’t loud, but it’s final. Because whatever fragile detachment I’ve tried to preserve to keep myself from getting too emotional, it’s gone now.
“She might not want to talk,” I repeat, already walking toward her door, “but I’m not letting her shut us out anymore.”
“Lina—” Everyone seems to warn in unison, but I’m beyond caring.
I push past them and shove Meredith’s bedroom door open. “Mer.” Her name escapes my mouth without my permission in a small gasp.
She’s standing in the center of her bedroom, completely still, with her arms wrapped tightly around her torso. She’s still wearing the dress she had on at the fashion show.
Her eyes snap to mine—the blotches of blue and brown look sadder than normal, like a sky fractured by storm clouds—and the rest of her body looks exhausted, as if she’s about to collapse in on herself. “Lina, can we not?”