WRONG
ariella
Today is prom.
The word feels too soft for how heavy it sits in my chest.
I video-call my parents in the late afternoon, dress still draped over the back of my chair, makeup half-done.
“Hey mum,” I say softly the moment they pick up.
“Ari—” she doesn’t even finish saying my name but bursts into tears.
Dad holds her in his arms, smiling gently at me the way he does when he’s trying not to show it hits him harder than he lets on. “Guess you did prove me, ha?”
I flip my hair playfully. “Just like daddy.”
“Hey, I deserve some credits too, you witch,” Asher, who was leaning into the frame from somewhere behind them, jumps right into the camera over Dad’s shoulders.
His hair is messier than usual, sleeves rolled up like he’s been dragged away from work.
“Ow, you old man,” he complains, rubbing his abs since Dad just elbowed him hard, sending him tumbling backward.
Somehow, he and Dad fixed their relationship. I’m glad they did. It feels good to have unity within the family.
Mom finally looks at me with a soft smile on her face. “Please ignore mama. She’s just too emotional seeing her baby girl all grown up.”
“Aww, what will you do when you see me on the graduation day? It’s in two weeks from today, you know?”
Her lips wobble.
“Shit,” Asher and I mutter simultaneously while she’s burying her face in Dad’s chest again.
“Rosaline… Rose, baby, don’t cry,” he runs his hand through her hair. “It’s our daughter’s big day.”
“I know…”
Dad looks at me apologetically. “We’ll call you back later, okay?”
“Fix your makeup. You’re actually looking like a scary witch,” Asher says, to which I give him my middle finger.
Dad sighs. “Asher…”
“What? You’re scolding me?” he points dramatically at himself. “I didn’t flip her off—”
Dad glares at him.
“No one takes my advice,” Asher grumbles.
Dad rolls his eyes while I giggle.
His eyes softening immediately as they return to me. “Ignore him.”
Asher throws his arms out as his jaw drops in the background. I shake my head.
“I’ll save y’all some seats on my graduation day. Also, you have to bring Adrian and Uncle Chris. I miss them both.”
Mom sobs and looks at me again. “We all will be there for you, sweetie. Go get ready, my little princess.”
I end the call with an over-emotional mother and sigh, falling back on the chair.
The prom hall is all dim lights and perfected glamour—gold streamers, mirrored tiles, music vibrating through the floor.
Everyone looks softer here. As if the night itself has been designed to convince us we’re still innocent.
I’m wearing a bold pink tulle skirt with a matching corset, which is pushing my tits up, making them appear double the actual size. The skirt falls on my upper thighs and is feathery, as if made from the wings of a huge, mystical bird.
I finished matching Versace platform heels. My makeup is simple, focusing mainly on my glittery, bold pink lips and a half-updo hair with a big bow clip.
I’m walking around, catching up with everyone—taking pictures, laughing, vibing with the music alongside them, and whatnot. Nobody turns me around because I’m a Keinston.
That’s when a boy from my class, Brent Callaway, walks in my direction. He’s wearing a dark colored suit with a white shirt underneath.
He’s nice. That’s the problem. Nice in the way that never quite settles into certainty—mixed signals wrapped in shy smiles, hands that hesitate to reach for mine, eyes that flick away when I’m looking at him for too long.
“Hi,” he says, stopping only a foot away from me.
“Hey,” I wave my fingers at him with a smile.
I notice him fidgeting. He’s already nervous.
“You look beautiful, Ariella.”
It takes everything in him to call me by my first name.
Nonetheless, I can’t help but smile widely at him. “Thanks. White shirt suits you,” I wanted to mention his suit, but I can’t pinpoint the exact color because of the changing lights.
A blush creeps up his face as he looks down. Then he clears his throat and takes a hesitant step towards me.
Brent bows down, offering his hand. “May I have this dance with you, Miss Keinston?”
Everyone around us stops in whatever they were doing. It takes a huge courage to ask out a Keinston like this in public.
And someone like Brent Callaway, a no-name, just did that. Even I’m taken aback by his sudden boldness.
I feel everyone is eagerly waiting for my reaction.
I smile and take his hand. “Yes.”
Most cheers for him. On us. Some regrets not making the first move.
But little did they know, I said yes because saying no feels like admitting something I’m not ready to confess out loud.
He looks up at me, and in that look I see a lovestruck boy.
It hurts to see that it’s never about his last name, but the fact that my heart belongs to a certain someone for a long time.
Brent carefully guides me to the center of the dance floor. His warm hands carefully settle at my waist. They’re far from being commanding or demanding.
The song changes. The beat slows into something bass-heavy, the kind of rhythm that slides under your skin instead of grabbing your attention.
You Right by Doja Cat & The Weeknd starts playing aloud in the speakers. The title alone feels like an accusation. I feel guilty for waving the green flag at him.
We struggle to catch the rhythm.
Hesitant steps soon turn into awkward giggles.
Slowly, we find our harmony and start to move together. Our bodies sway intimately enough to look convincing that we might have possibilities to be something.
His fingers tighten just slightly, as if he’s finally choosing a side tonight. Around us, couples blur into silhouettes and laughter and stolen moments.
And still my eyes betray me.
They keep drifting to the corners of the room. Starting from the doorways, as if my Prince Charming might burst through the shadows at any moment and catch me cheating on him.
My mind imagines him watching me, seeing me exactly as I am beneath the dress and the pretense.
The lyrics flow melodiously about thinking of the wrong person when the right one is holding you. About knowing better and wanting worse. The irony presses against my ribs like a boulder.
Brent reads my composure and leans closer. “Are you alright?”
I barely register the question, but it’s the concern in his eyes that gives it away for me.
Still, I nod and try to smile softly, letting my body follow the music with him.
But in my head, it isn’t his hands on me. It’s not his eyes looking at me. It’s Alistair’s.
The way he would stand still while the world revolves around him. The way his commanding gaze alone could quiet a room full of people. The way he never once looked at me by accident, never noticed my presence.
Is he being oblivious? Or do I blend in that well?
Guilt coils low in my stomach. I’m dancing with someone who’s here, who’s allowed, who might actually want me. And yet every beat of the song pulls my attention back to the man who shouldn’t.
He’s married, for fuck’s sake.
The track winds down, applause bleeding into the next song. I blink and come back to the real world from my head.
My eyes dart around in surprise to see that the crowd has parted around us, leaving us center-staged.
Brent steps back, smiling like he thinks something has shifted between us.
Maybe it has. Just not in the direction he hopes. Even as the music fades, my pulse still moves to a rhythm that doesn’t belong to Brent.
And my traitorous, reckless heart keeps insisting that wanting the wrong man feels more honest than choosing the right one ever could.