Chapter 18
eighteen
BILLIE
This store— like all others lining Las Ramblas— looks like a postcard sent from a life you didn’t know you wanted. It’s immaculate, the decor all gentle creams and blistering whites. Clothes aren’t just displayed on racks, but curated and color-coordinated like items in a museum.
I’m walking three feet behind Alana, who is in her element here, heading toward the fitting room.
“Don’t we have to look through the clothes before trying things on?” I say, trying to keep up.
“Of course not silly,” Alana giggles and rolls her eyes. “This isn’t Macy’s. Here you get a personal shopper who stocks the room for you.”
“Who’s paying for this?” I ask darkly.
Alana opens her canvas bag and produces a credit card. She holds it up between two fingers, and the gold-flecked light in the boutique catches it. I recognize it well.
It is my credit card.
My name is on it. Billie Harper.
“That’s my card,” I say.
“Mm,” she says, her tone communicating she is aware of this. “You left your purse unattended while you were sleeping on the plane. Really irresponsible of you, Billie.”
“I wasn’t sleeping, I was drugged— and I don’t need new clothes just to?—”
Alana stops in her tracks and turns me toward a mirror on a nearby wall. Seeing us side by side, it’s not difficult to understand her wordless point. She looks effortlessly glamorous. I am covered in dirt and hay.
“Why can’t you dress for who you want to be?
” Alana says, and she leans over so her toothy smile reflected in the mirror looks like a devil on my shoulder.
“You’re so willing to spend time and energy on everyone else.
Who’s spending time on you?” She pats my shoulder gently.
“Besides, if you show up to the Twin Ledger and don’t look the part, Marco and Mateo— my bosses— will shoot you in the face. So let’s make it good.”
I gulp, thinking about meeting Alana’s bossses. I remind myself this is for Rodrigo— to save his life. I think about his warm eyes and the way he tried to warn me about Alana at the baby shower.
“You’ve talked me into it,” I say, following her again. “But my clothes wouldn’t be that bad if they weren’t covered in hay?—”
“It’s not the hay,” Alana says.
We reach the fitting rooms and Alana pushes me into the biggest one, then perches herself on a perfect white-cushioned couch outside.
The saleswoman returns with an armful of things in dark, structural colors— charcoal, black, one deep plum— and passes them to me through the door.
As it closes behind her, I spot the gun still lingering on Alana’s waistband, and am suddenly reminded there’s nowhere to run.
Trying on clothes— in my ordinary life— is already stressful.
Pants that are too tight. Stomach bulge.
Itchy fabrics. Now, I have to do it at gunpoint.
The fitting room is large and features flattering lighting. I look at the pile of garments on the small bench. I pick up the first thing— a blazer, charcoal, clean-lined— and put it on.
I look in the mirror.
I look in the mirror for a long time.
Who the heck is that?
The woman in the mirror looks like me— if I were the sexy CEO of a glamorous social media company.
I’m wearing a blazer that fits— not approximately, not with the small adjustments and compromises of something that was made for someone else’s body and accepted by mine, but that actually fits.
The shoulders are exactly where they should be.
The fabric lies flat. The woman in the mirror stands like she has somewhere to be and is deciding whether the people there have earned her presence yet.
I don’t recognize her.
“Well?” Alana calls.
I come out.
Alana looks at me and something happens in her face— not surprise, but satisfaction in being right. “Yes,” she says immediately. “That. Exactly that.”
“It’s expensive,” I say.
“Billie, we have your credit card! Don’t worry about it! It’s on me.”
“With my credit card,” I remind her— a fact she conveniently ignores.
She tilts her head. “You want to know why this works? It’s because of what it says before you open your mouth.
Before you sit down, before you speak, before you do a single thing— people have already made a decision about who you are.
” She gestures at me, at the blazer, at the general fact of my reflection.
“Right now you look like someone who won’t accept a bad deal.
That’s the whole negotiation. Half of it.
More than half.” She pauses. “Do you know what you looked like before?”
“Don’t,” I say.
“Like someone who raises alpacas,” she says. “Sweetly. From a small farm.” Then, she adds generously. “You looked like someone who is very good at it.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve been wearing bohemian blouses and cut-off capris for years, mainly because I haven’t had time to evolve any type of new fashionable perspective. I’ve been too busy getting Mr. Franklin coffee, and making his dinner reservations, and managing his calendar.
“People treat you like the assistant because you dress like you’ve already accepted it,” Alana says, not unkindly.
“Dress like the thing you want to be instead, and watch what changes.” She reaches out and adjusts my collar a half-inch.
“The world is extremely shallow, and this is like, totally good news for people like you. Because shallow things are easy to change.”
Alana produces her phone. “Okay, stay right there,” she says, already moving to stand beside me. She extends her arm. “For Instagram. We’re on a girls’ trip. Obviously.”
“No, I’d really prefer you didn’t—” I hold my hand up to decline but… click. I’m too late. She takes the photo. My face is contorted in awkward protest. Alana is radiant.
Alana looks at the photo with genuine pleasure.
“Perfect,” she says. “We look incredible. Also, this way if you decide to double-cross me and go to the police later, I can show that you were totally on board with taking this trip.” She posts it before I can think about what that means, or who will see it, or what it will look like to a man named Rodrigo who is somewhere in this city, waiting to find out if I’m okay.
I feel guilty thinking about Rodrigo. You have a boyfriend, I remind myself, thinking of Tyler. I wonder if he’s panicking. Maybe he’s sent an entire search party after me. Even as I think about the idea, I know it’s unlikely.
“Oh my gosh!” Alana says, reversing her phone so I can see her feed. “Tyler posted a picture of his latest video game score on instagram! Looks like he’s really winning.”
My heart sinks. He doesn’t even care that I’m missing. Then, suddenly, I’m filled with rage. “He— he doesn’t even care that I’m gone,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush.
“Billie,” Alana shakes her head. “Think about your dream guy. Who would you be with?”
Rodrigo— the name enters my mind before I can wave it away. I don’t say it aloud, because I’m worried Alana will shoot me if I do.
“Now, think about Tyler and how he doesn’t live up to that guy in your mind. You can do so much better than him!” There’s a long pause. “Also…” She hesitates.
“What?” I ask.
“… Tyler might be posting as if it’s no big deal you’re gone because I used your phone to text him and break up with him, on your behalf.”
“You did what?—”
She holds up a hand. “You can thank me later. But seriously, Tyler was dragging you down. I just figured you could use a fresh start, you know? With someone who really appreciates you.”
At first, I want to shout at her. But then, I think about the piles of laundry Tyler leaves for me. The dishes in the sink. And how I always feel like he doesn’t see the real me— who I could be, if someone just… cared about me.
Alana grabs my shoulders and spins me back toward the mirror. “I mean, like, would this woman really put up with Tyler?”
No, I think to myself. She wouldn’t. She would go after what she wants. I shudder, thinking about how terrible it would be if Alana knew that what I really want is a man like Rodrigo.
I look at my reflection one more time.
The alpaca farmer is still in there somewhere, I think. But she’s wearing better clothes now.