Chapter 18
Even though Yaz had told me that she would meet me at my apartment, I surprised her at the airport with an embarrassingly large sign on obnoxiously neon-colored paper because of course I did.
I had done it for her, not to distract myself from the snarl of thoughts inside my head when hiding under the covers didn’t help.
Milo was the snag in the fucking tapestry not just of the city, but of my life, a thread that I wasn’t going to pull.
Not because I was worried that it would unravel the whole thing—it wasn’t that important a thread. It was just a waste of time.
Even though she was dressed in matcha-green cashmere and the dark brown skin of her face was glowing with expensive serum, the Yaz that stepped out into the arrivals lounge at JFK looked so worn around the edges that I felt my sign dip an inch.
She spotted me, and the split second before her face creased into a smile made me hesitant, even though a moment before I’d been about to barrel straight into her for a long-awaited hug.
“How was the flight?” I asked instead, reaching to tug her monogrammed carry-on from her hand.
“Not too bad,” she replied.
I’d been so sure that the weirdness that had made me feel the distance between us for the first time since I’d moved to New York would be gone when we were face-to-face.
Instead, it seemed to have grown and I didn’t know why and I was too scared of the answer to ask her about it as I led her to the subway.
Was it the distance? Stress over her work or her wedding or both? Was it that she was still mad that I had all but dropped my screenplay in favor of the Duke of Harding? Not that we’d been able to talk about it much since our daily check-ins had devolved into weekly texts.
“It smells so good in here,” Yaz said when we got to my apartment, not even out of breath after all the stairs.
“That’s ’cause this is where I fart,” I said.
Instead of her usual cackle, Yaz just smiled politely, the way you would respond to an acquaintance who’d made a mild joke.
I waved toward the candle warmer in the corner, which I’d turned down to its lowest setting.
“I got a creamsicle-scented candle to go with my duvet.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t actually think your farts smelled like ice cream.”
Yaz flopped back onto my bed and stayed there, motionless, for long enough that I couldn’t help blurting out, “Hey, is everything okay?”
She sat up slowly. “What do you mean?”
“Just that I’ve been getting kind of weird vibes from you lately. Are you—”
Reconsidering keeping me in your life given all the time you’ve wasted trying to help me get my life together?
Honestly, I kind of wish I’d had the courage to say that out loud instead of swallowing back the words and giving Yaz a smile that would have never passed muster under normal circumstances. “Wedding planning getting the better of you? I know I haven’t made good on my offer to help…”
The way she leaned back on my pillows made it easy for her to avoid my gaze. “It’s just this case I’m working on. I can’t really share the details.”
“Right,” I said, and she must have picked up on the awkwardness in my tone because she sat up straight and asked me about my outfit for that night.
Believe it or not, I’d kept it surprisingly simple.
Trawling my usual thrift and consignment stores had turned up a short, strapless dress in this brocade fabric that looked simultaneously like the curtains in our Duke of Harding set and like something Cher Horowitz would have worn on a date with Josh.
It was the exact shade of strawberry-ice-cream pink as the beret Dash had given me; adding a pair of silver Mary Janes and a tiny purse completed the whole Clueless aesthetic.
Yaz had gone with a polished yet summery cream-colored sundress, which she’d paired with tan espadrilles and understated gold-and-pearl earrings that went with her understated gold-and-pearl necklace. Even the claw clip she was planning on putting her hair up with was cream and gold.
She hung up the dress in my foot-wide excuse for a closet to keep it from getting wrinkles, fussing with one packing crease for long enough that I finally broke down and told her to put her shoes back on because I was taking her out to explore the city.
I treated her to a late lunch in Soho, and we even managed to do some shopping before we had to rush back to get dressed for burlesque night.
And yeah, I’ll admit it—I was… well, not nervous exactly.
A little awkward about seeing Dash, now that the tequila had left my system.
Even more apprehensive about finally introducing him to Yaz, who would figure out we were hooking up within two seconds of meeting him.
I’d wanted so badly for her to see how good I was doing.
But after seeing how hard and fast I’d spiraled the night before, I didn’t even believe it myself.
Mostly, I was kind of regretting I’d said anything about going to Second Chance.
Dash had practically come straight out and told me that he didn’t want to meet Yaz.
And after what I’d said last night, chances were he’d be even less eager.
Don’t get me wrong, he’d do it anyway. That was just the kind of person he was.
You know, the kind that wouldn’t let one measly little spiral get in the way of a commitment.
Dusk was deepening into night when we got to Second Chance.
Dash’s window was fully lit up—fireflies aglow, their warm light bringing out the translucence of the fabric and the texture of the paper flowers and catching on the beads, while carefully trained spotlights made jewels of the paperbacks being featured and the clementines carefully placed among them.
It was… art. And Dash had created it, and we’d all helped bring it to life, and even though my stomach had been all twisted up for most of the day, seeing the window he’d poured so much into dissolved most of the knots inside me.
Dash was nothing like Milo. He was honorable and honest and all that stuff. He’d never blindside me. And he’d definitely never peace out without at least attempting to talk me to death about it.
I tried to tell Yaz about the window, but she’d already gone inside.
I’d half expected Dash to be standing by the Duke of Harding Recommends table, being charming at someone, but other than the cardboard cutout of the Duke he and Shy had set up, the first person we ran into was Chase.
He had gotten the memo about the evening’s theme being candy realness, and he’d changed his look since the night before.
His hair, which had been dyed a dark blond when I met him, was now the exact shade of pink as cotton candy, streaked in places with light orange.
The combination made his pale brown skin look creamy—lickable, even, if you went by Yaz’s expression.
I shot her an amused glance that went thoroughly unnoticed as she took in his whole vibe.
Chase definitely noticed. The smile he gave her was close to a smirk, which made her eyes narrow.
Classic Yaz response. Then again, she’d probably just remembered that she had a fiancée and wasn’t supposed to be ogling other people.
Or maybe ogling was allowed when you were engaged?
Clearly, I didn’t know anything about relationships.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” I asked Chase after I’d kissed his cheeks and introduced him and Yaz.
“I’m not on for another hour,” Chase said.
The shirt he was wearing was a metallic sequinsplosion in the same colorway as his new hair, shimmering like mermaid scales as he moved, the sparkles echoed by the long earring dangling from his right ear.
“And I’m too excited about the lineup to risk missing a single second.
Which means getting a good spot—care to join me outside? ”
I gave a quick glance around the store. Not that I was looking for Dash or anything.
Just noticing that Shy, dressed in a cherry-print button-down, was covering the register with Kitty Marlowe wrapped around their shoulders like an extremely weather-inappropriate fur stole.
And that Aria’s razor-sharp gaze was trained on the guy she was having a conversation with and not, you know, piercing through me.
Which normally would’ve been Yaz’s department, but she was too busy being weird and, well, ogling Chase.
So yeah, we went out to the secret garden, where I flashed our tickets to the Barbie blonde running the event. The place was the most crowded I’d ever seen it, so it took a few minutes for us to snag beers and three spots on the bench that ran all around the garden’s back wall.
Chase cupped a hand around his mouth and called out, “Ruby, my love. Please get over here and let me tell you how ravishing you look tonight.”
This—yes, ravishing was definitely the word to describe her—redhead came over and saved us all from the indignity of polite chitchat by bubbling at us so enthusiastically that even Zombie Yaz was joining in.
Which meant that I could relax a little, at least in the brief moments in between subtly scanning the room in search of Dash.
Or maybe not-so-subtly? Because I returned my gaze to our little group to realize that Ruby had left and Chase and Yaz were looking at me with undisguised curiosity.
“Why so worried, babe?” Chase asked gently.
“Worried? Not me,” I forced myself to say.
Then, betrayed by my automatic glance down at my phone, which was unhelpfully blank, I was forced to admit, “I thought Dash would be here by now. It’s not like him to be late.
It’s not like him to be anything but scrupulously punctual, actually, which is kind of a pain in my Dominican ass. ”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Yaz said firmly, back on the familiar territory of trying to talk me out of a spiral. “He could have gotten stuck on the subway or something.”