Jhene
FOURTEEN
“So you’re the one who’s been keeping Killian on his toes.”
Chantal flashes me a warm smile as I settle into the wrought-iron chair across from her on the terrace. The afternoon sun is bright overhead, bathing everything in a golden hue that feels surreal. Which isn’t ideal for someone already a little overwhelmed.
“Um…” I mumble. “I don’t know about that. He’s the one keeping me on mine.”
The woman beside Chantal lets out a snort.
She has the same mahogany complexion Chantal has, except her hair is in sisterlocs piled at the top of her head, vaguely resembling the shape of a pineapple.
She’s in a pastel-yellow swing dress that looks both vintage and chic and makes me feel severely underdressed.
“I didn’t realize we had company,” she says plainly, in a matter-of-fact tone I’d normally appreciate if I weren’t overstimulated.
Chantal laughs off the question. “Neek, this is Jhene. My friend from the cages.”
“Making friends in cages—also something I didn’t realize was a thing.”
“Neither did I,” I admit.
“You know what I mean. Don’t be a smartass,” Chantal says, swatting at her cousin’s arm.
“That makes two of us,” I mutter under my breath.
Both women glance at me with raised brows. Heat creeps up my neck.
“Oh, um… smartass is one of Killian’s favorite nicknames for me. That and girl. Oh, and stray. Sometimes pain in the ass when he’s feeling extra spicy.”
Chantal laughs, the bright and melodic sound matching the sunny summer afternoon. “Mine calls me brat. Among other things.”
“Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “No… no… we’re not… it’s not like that. Killian and I aren’t... We’re just...”
I trail off, more heat flaming my face as I fumble for words that refuse to come.
The truth is, I don’t know what Killian and I are.
After everything that’s happened between us—the movie dates, the kisses and touches and falling asleep in his arms—I have no idea how to define it.
One thing’s for sure. I’m definitely not about to try in front of two women I barely know. Thankfully, I’m saved from further embarrassment by the terrace doors banging open.
A stern-faced older woman in an apron marches toward us carrying a tray laden with what looks like some kind of caramel-colored cake. Her blondish gray hair is pulled back in a sleek bun; the expression she wears suggesting she’s perpetually annoyed.
I recognize her from my last visit to Callahan House—Oona, otherwise known as the Callahan’s keeper of the house.
“Sticky toffee pudding,” she announces proudly. She sets the tray down on the table with more force than necessary. “And don’t tell me you’re not hungry. You girls don’t eat enough. Skin and bones, the lot of you.”
“Oona, I’m literally plus-sized,” Chantal points out. “Size twenty. Your girl is thick.”
Oona scoffs as if doubting the claim. “Less bitching, more eating. Get to it!”
Monique picks up a fork. “I’ll leave no crumbs on my plate, Oona. Promise.”
“That’s more like it!” the Irish woman huffs, then she turns her blue-eyed gaze onto me. “You. Isn’t it nice seeing you again? Figured Killian would’ve scared you off by now.”
I blink, unsure how to respond. “I’m... harder to scare than I look?”
Oona simply stares as though perplexed by me then gives a curt nod and marches back inside without another word.
“Don’t mind her,” Chantal says, reaching for a piece of pudding. “That’s just how Oona is. Forward. Very forward. Too forward. But she means well. She and Simone are practically besties these days.”
The conversation drifts to the homecoming party for Ronan and Simone. I try to follow along while nibbling on the sticky toffee pudding, which is admittedly delicious.
Chantal mentions she’s been handling most of the planning, but she needs help with the menu selections.
“Okay, now that I can help with,” Monique says. “It’s better than being on the decorations committee like last time. I got stuck picking out carnations for three hours. As if anybody under seventy gives a damn about carnations.”
Chantal rolls her eyes. “The floral arrangements are one of the most important jobs of any gathering.”
“That’s where you and me differ, cuz. I happen to not give a damn what color a flower is or how the petal looks when in bloom.”
As they bicker good-naturedly, I find myself studying them from the sidelines.
Chantal’s handbag sits on the table beside her plate. I notice the interlocking C logo on the clasp. I’m no fashion expert by any means, but I’m pretty sure that means it’s a Chanel bag. The real thing, not a knockoff from a street vendor.
Monique looks no less expensive in her vintage dress and heels. The way the fabric drapes her body, I can tell it’s taken a lot of time and care to curate a perfect fit.
Basically the opposite of the faded T-shirts and distressed jeans I wear day to day.
These women belong to a world I’ve never been part of. A world of designer clothes and terrace lunches and party planning committees. They have inheritances and credit cards with no limits. They’ve never wanted for anything.
And then there’s me—scraping together five bucks in hopes it’ll somehow save my baby sister.
A pang of guilt hits me. It’s not as if I haven’t vowed to do anything to rescue her. I’ve already committed myself to getting her back at any cost.
A figurative price that cost a lot more than a Chanel bag at the end of the day…
“You good, Jhene?” Chantal asks suddenly. “You’ve gone quiet.”
“Oh, um, fine,” I reply, sitting up a little straighter. “Just... not really a party kind of person. Plus, I don’t exactly have anything to wear to this kind of event.”
Chantal gasps, her hands flying up to clasp together in front of her chest. “Girl, you think that’s a problem?! I’ve got you!”
“Uh, what?”
“I have plenty of stuff for you to wear. We might have to take the waist in a few inches, but that’s no problem.” She’s practically bouncing in her seat, dark brown eyes sparkling with excitement. “I have my own personal tailor! He’ll hook you up.”
I stare at her, momentarily speechless. “You have a personal tailor?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No,” Monique and I say in unison.
Chantal waves a dismissive hand. “Well, girl, he’s amazing. We’ll find you something perfect that’s flirty and really cute. Killian’ll love it on you! It’ll be fun!”
Killian? Flirty? Fun?
The words feel foreign as I imagine myself as a doll being dressed up by a woman I hardly know. Chantal means well, though, and it’s hard to push back against her eagerness. She’s genuinely trying to help. A gesture to include me.
Turning her down would be rude.
“Uh… okay,” I say hesitantly.
Her face lights up even more. “Jhene, I’m about to have you giving new meaning to Hot Girl Summer!”
An awkward smile crawls onto my face to match the bright one on hers. I have no clue what she means by Hot Girl Summer, but I have a feeling I’m going to regret this…
As it turns out, Chantal wasn’t kidding about her closet.
When she said she had plenty of stuff for me to wear, I pictured a standard walk-in closet. I did not picture a closet that’s twice the size of Killian’s studio and lined with racks upon racks of clothes and shelves of any kind of shoe you could want.
I’ve never seen so many in my life.
“This… is a lot,” I murmur, standing frozen in the doorway.
Chantal shrugs at my side. “It’s not that much. A lot of it is seasonal. I rotate things out every few months.”
I’m so startled by that prospect I don’t even know what to say in response.
Chantal’s apartment is on the Upper East Side, an upgraded brownstone that’s so glamorous I feel distinctly out of place.
She explains she’s kept the apartment for the times she and Lochlan are in the city. Otherwise, they’re at their mansion upstate.
Multiple homes—another thing I can’t wrap my head around.
But to her credit, she does her best to help me feel at home.
After an hour of trying on more dresses than I can count, Chantal and Monique finally settle on a mint-green piece with thin straps and tiny flowers scattered across the fabric. It’s simple but feminine and pretty. They say the shade complements my honey-brown skin tone and fits the summer vibe.
“It looks amazing on you,” Chantal says.
Monique nods in agreement. “This is the one. It’s a keeper.”
Considering I know nothing about fashion, I have no room to argue.
The party is only a couple days later. I find myself in one of the guest bathrooms at Callahan House while Chantal does my hair and makeup and Monique supervises from her perch on the bathtub’s edge.
A glance in the mirror leaves me stunned. I barely recognize my reflection. My eyes look huge with the eyeliner and mascara, and there’s a sheen on my cheeks that catches the light.
“That’s the highlight,” Chantal explains. “Gives you that camera-ready dewy glow.”
Monique tilts her head to the side, studying me. “Have you considered contacts? Or skipping the glasses altogether? Your bone structure is incredible, and the frames kind of hide it.”
She reaches for my glasses on the bathroom counter, presumably to put them back in the case.
I snap into action before thinking about it. My hand grabs at hers before she can, maybe a little more forceful than I should be.
“I need those!” I say. “They’re my eyes. I can’t see without them.”
Both women stare, startled by the sudden intensity.
“Okay,” Monique says slowly, holding up her hands. “Glasses stay on. Got it.”
I draw a breath, trying to calm the irrational panic. It’s not just about seeing, though that’s part of it. The glasses are familiar. Comfortable.
…a barrier between me and the rest of the world.
Without them, I feel exposed.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “They’re kind of like a safety blanket, I guess.”
Chantal’s expression softens with sympathy. “Girl, you don’t have to explain. They’re cute anyway. Gives you that whole sexy librarian vibe.”
“The glasses can’t hide how good you look,” Monique adds. “Trust me.”
There’s a sharp tap on the bathroom door.
“Chantal,” comes Killian’s gruff voice. “What’ve you done with my guest? You better not’ve lost her.”