6. Becoming Cassie #3
I jam the flowers into the foam a little too hard, and a stem snaps in my fingers.
Sap oozes onto my palm, sticky and cold.
I wipe it on my jeans, fighting the urge to cry.
I don’t even know what the hell is wrong with me anymore.
I’m so emotional and it’s like riding a rollercoaster. I’m seriously getting whiplash.
Angela sticks her head in the back. “You okay?”
“Totally fine,” I chirp, a little too bright while cramming another stem into the arrangement. “Just daydreaming.”
She watches me for a beat too long. “Take a break when you’re done, okay? I’ll be out front if you need anything.”
I nod, grateful for the excuse to vanish again.
I finish the arrangements—lopsided, but nobody will notice—and duck into the tiny employee bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
My hands shake, the tips of my fingers numb.
In the mirror, I look so normal: ponytail, clear skin, no trace of the slutty girl from twelve hours ago.
But I can still feel her, lurking just below the surface, waiting to show herself again.
My phone buzzes again, this time in my apron pocket.
I check the screen: STELLA, all caps, a dozen emojis in the preview. I swipe to answer.
“Are you alive?” Stella’s voice is a sugar bomb, high and effervescent. “Or are you just ghosting your best friend for the hell of it?”
I smile. Stella’s probably the craziest of my friends, but also one of the easiest to love.
Plus, she’s had an insane life recently.
Her dad is now engaged to our friend, Andie Crenshaw, and I know Stella’s happy for them.
But still, it can’t be easy to know that your dad and one of your closest friends are fucking each other’s brains out.
“I’m alive,” I say, sinking onto the closed toilet lid. “Just at work. So what’s up?”
“Funny you’d ask,” she says, “because I have news. Huge news. There’s a party Friday and you’re coming. Non-negotiable.”
I stifle a laugh. “I work Fridays, remember?”
“Not Friday night though. You’re coming after that shop shuts because what can a cactus do for you that a cock can’t?”
“Stella!” I gasp.
But it’s just my friend being herself.
“Okay, okay, bad joke. But you’re coming and you need to dress slutty. Like, hooker slutty.”
I blink, overwhelmed by the speed of Stella’s brain. “What? No! Why?”
“Because there are going to be actual hot guys there, Kay. Not plant nerds or the library weirdos you like. Like, real men with six packs and huge cocks. I want you to get laid, preferably by at least two of them. Unless you’re still holding out for your stepbrother, in which case, bring him along. Why not.”
I nearly choke. “What? Why would I—”
“Please. You know you want to. Just do it,” she says, then switches back to party mode.
“No, don’t bring your step because he’d ruin our game.
Anyway, the party’s at Lila’s house, her parents are in Aruba.
Everyone cool is going. I’ll send you the address and I’ll do your makeup if you don’t trust yourself. ”
I hesitate. “Yeah, but what about your boyfriends? I mean, aren’t you dating like two guys at once?”
She snorts. “First of all, they’re not my boyfriends. I’m just dating a couple dudes until I get bored. Secondly, they’re both too obsessed with their hair and looksmaxxing in general to notice anyone else. You’ll be safe, promise.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Looksmaxxing? Really, is that a thing?”
Stella’s voice drops an octave.
“It’s definitely a thing. You know that dudes are under a lot of pressure these days to look good, and they’re injecting peptides and working out like fiends, doing Hyrox and all that.
But to be honest, I kind of love it. Make yourself hot for me, gentlemen, because I only fuck 10’s with massive cocks. ”
I snort with laughter.
“You’re insane, Stells.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s why you love me. See you Friday, hot stuff.”
Then, Stella hangs up before I can reply.
I pocket the phone and stare at the cracked tile floor, mind spinning.
I picture myself at the party, hair down and makeup thick, wearing something tight and cut too low.
I picture myself in a room full of strangers, pretending to be the girl I was last night.
I wonder if I can really pull it off, or if I’ll chicken out and hide in the kitchen with the pet rock again.
I get up, wash my hands, and return to the workbench.
I pick up the delicate orchid, roots wrapped in moss and wire, and begin transplanting it to a glazed pot. My hands move carefully, each motion precise and slow. The plant is fragile, easy to break, but if you treat it right, it will bloom for months—showy, gaudy, impossible to ignore.
I finish potting the orchid and set it by the window, where the morning sun is just beginning to burn through the condensation.
I touch my lips, still faintly sticky from last night’s gloss.
This is who I am now, I think.
Not the plant girl, not the good girl, not even the weird stepsister in the back row.
I am a go-getter. A sexy vixen who doesn’t wait for things to happen to her. I make the earth shake, and if disaster strikes, then so be it.
And maybe, just maybe, I want Trevor to experience my transformation, too.