“What?”
“Maybe this is just for the interview,” she said. “Maybe it’s not a date.”
I hadn’t thought it was a date—he was Gabe Parker, after all—but I also hadn’t thought of it as a continuation of the interview.
“Or, you might not even see him,” Jo said. “Maybe he thought you’d write something nice if he got you tickets to the premiere.”
I felt a slow sinking in my stomach, the same sensation I’d gotten when I discovered that everyone knew that Jeremy had been cheating on me back at Iowa. That realization that you’re the last to know and feeling like a complete and total fool.
Jo could be right.
This whole thing could just be a way for Gabe to butter me up so I’d put together a complimentary piece. The thought rankled me, because I had already planned on writing a flattering article. I didn’t need to be bribed to do that.
“He’ll probably say hello,” Jo said. “But I bet you won’t be sitting with him during the movie and you definitely won’t walk the red carpet with him.” She looked at me in the mirror. “You weren’t thinking you would, were you?”
“No,” I said.
I might have been.
“You’ll probably be home by ten,” she said. “I’ll wait up.”
I didn’t say anything, just sat there, wallowing in my own foolish feelings. Of course, I wasn’t going to walk the red carpet. Of course, Gabe wasn’t going to spend the evening of his friend’s premiere hanging out with me.
“What are you wearing?” Jo asked, using a wide, fluffy brush to apply bronzer.
“The polka dot dress that I wore to Greg’s wedding last year,” I said.
Jo gagged.
“That thing?” she asked. “Please don’t. It’s hideous. They won’t let you on the red carpet wearing it.”
That “thing” was one of my favorite dresses, but now I knew I wouldn’t be able to wear it without thinking of Jo hacking dramatically into her palm.
And apparently, I would be allowed on the red carpet?
“People will be wearing gowns, Chani.” Jo tapped my forehead with the handle of her brush. “You can’t wear some Forever 21 sack.”
I wanted to push her hand away but she wasn’t done with my lips. Instead I sat there, listening to her list all the dresses in my closet that she hated.
As much as I disliked her messaging, she was right about the dress code. People would be wearing gowns. I read Go Fug Yourself. I knew how actresses dressed to attend events like this—especially when the event was centered around a lush, romantic period film. The looks would be dramatic, to say the least.
I had a blue dress. A vintage dress that could be from the 1940s or the 1980s, with wide, theatrical shoulders and a slim skirt that flared just a little at the knee. The fabric was velvet, dotted with tiny crystal beads that glittered under the light.
It wouldn’t compare to the designer gowns that most of the actresses would be wearing, but it was dramatic and eye-catching. I could brush my hair to the side à la Veronica Lake, and wear the silver pumps that pinched my toes but looked amazing.
But when I put the dress on, just as I was zipping it up, thinking that it looked pretty good, I heard a damning ripping sound.
“Fuck.” I turned to the side and found the source.
A tear right along the zipper, exposing my bra.
I stood there for a moment, wondering if I could just shove my purse under my arm and not breathe too deeply for the rest of the night.
No. That wouldn’t do.
But neither would any of the other dresses in my closet.
I was supposed to meet Gabe in forty minutes. I had to leave in ten.
This was my only option. I had to make it work.
Twisting uncomfortably, I managed to pinch the fabric together. Pulling a safety pin out of my desk drawer, and contorting enough that I was starting to sweat, I was able to pin the torn fabric to my bra. If anyone looked closely, it was a mess, but if I kept my arm down, kept my purse tucked against it, and prayed for dim lighting, I could probably make it through the evening without tearing the dress further and exposing the world’s most boring black bra.
Jo was watching TV on the couch. My toes were already hurting by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, but the shoes suited the dress so perfectly that I decided to ignore the pain.
“Wow,” Jo said. “You look absolutely incredible.”
For all her sharp comments and condescending compliments, when Jo really liked something, she could be effusive with praise. It was what kept me from completely despising her.