Now for the lips.
Tessa sifted through the crusty, old lipstick tubes, wrinkling her nose. She held up a dark red shade in front of her mouth, but she set it back down again unused. Too easy to smear. It was New Year’s Eve, and Tessa knew what that meant. Just the thought of it made her stomach do a flip-flop. Where would she be at midnight? Dancing in Taylor’s arms? And at the stroke of twelve, perhaps their lips would meet…
Her mouth curved in a secret smile, and this time it wasn’t forced. No lipstick, she decided. Just a coating of clear gloss. She probably didn’t need any blusher either, from the looks of the bright-pink color flooding her cheeks.
She slicked the gloss across her lips and puckered at her reflection.
Ready.
Tessa turned briskly toward the stairs. Her ride would be there any minute. No time to dwell on any lingering anxieties. She began the long journey down the corridor, even as the nervous fluttering in her belly gave way to something darker.
“Eric. Eric Thorn,” she whispered like a chant as she took a slow step forward. “See,” she told herself. “It’s all in your head.”
But it didn’t feel like her imagination. More like a physical sensation—an external force that grew more powerful by the second. Like she had a rubber band tied around her waist, growing tauter with every step she took. Soon the tension would become unbearable. The elastic would snap. And then what? Then she’d find herself flung back to the starting place, back inside her bedroom door.
Tessa lowered her head and plowed on. She had to keep going this time. Even if she fainted. Even if she had to roll herself down the stairs. Tonight was too important. She couldn’t give in to her phobias yet again. She wouldn’t.
She’d made it halfway down the stairs before she pulled up short. Tessa patted at the pocket of her jeans and realized it was empty. Her phone. She couldn’t leave without that. What if Taylor tried to message her? She had to go back for it and do the whole trip downstairs all over again. With a small cry of frustration, Tessa bounded back upstairs and grabbed the phone from where she’d left it by the sink. She was just about to slip it in her pocket when a notification lit the screen.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Taylor? Had he run into some delay? Was he backing out? Her stomach dropped, weighted down by an emotion she couldn’t quite name: disappointment mingled with relief.
But the message wasn’t even from Taylor. Instead, Tessa found herself staring at a DM from an account that she hadn’t interacted with in months.
MET: Hey, ur gonna send me pics from the show, right?
A wave of vertigo washed over her, and Tessa gripped the bathroom door to keep from falling. The show? The Eric Thorn show? What other show could MET possibly mean?
Tessa H: Huh?
MET: Private show in Midland!
MET knew she’d won the contest? She knew where Tessa lived? But how? Another new DM popped onto the screen.
MET: Are you gonna send me pics, or do I have to get them myself?
Tessa H: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
MET: Tessa, I know EVERYTHING ABOUT EVERYTHING in this fandom. Haven’t you figured that out by now?
Tessa thrust the phone into her pocket. Black spots danced before her eyes as she made her halting way to the bottom of the stairs. Her stomach rolled, and she pressed a clammy hand across her mouth. She’d spent the whole last week clinging to the idea that the concert would be private. No one else would be there, aside from the short list of people that mattered in her life:
Taylor.
Dr. Regan.
Eric Thorn.
No one else was supposed to know about it. Not even her mom. So how did MET know? How many other people had she told? What if Tessa found a whole mob of rabid fans lined up outside the club? What if security let them in, and Tessa ended up in some overcrowded room, packed shoulder to shoulder?
Strangers jostling…hands groping…cameras flashing…
“No!”
She couldn’t let that happen. She sent back another frantic DM.
Tessa H: No pictures. Guest list closed. Security SUPER tight. Don’t waste your time.
It was unreal to think how her feelings about MET had changed in a few short months. She’d felt downright honored when Eric’s most popular superfan first followed her account. Now Tessa wished the other girl had never noticed her. There was a line somewhere between fangirling and stalking, and MET had crossed it long ago.
But Tessa couldn’t let some stranger spoil this experience. She had to put it out of her mind. Relax. Focus on her breathing, in and out, just the way Dr. Regan had taught her…
Tessa heard the crunch of tires on the gravel road outside. She opened the front door and saw Dr. Regan’s silver SUV rolling up the driveway.
Time to go.
With one last deep breath for courage, Tessa stepped over the threshold and pulled the door closed in her wake.
? ? ?
Blair shuffled down the edge of the empty highway, staggering under the weight of the duffel bag. So much for traveling light. The damned thing must have weighed thirty pounds. How much farther was it?
Blair had asked to pull over in front of the club just now, but the surly Greyhound driver had refused. They’d finally rolled to a stop at an abandoned bus shelter, a quarter mile farther down the road. Now Blair needed to hustle if the plan was going to work. No time to stop and redistribute the bag’s unwieldy contents.
Why was it so heavy? Blair had only meant to pack a few supplies: a camera, a telephoto lens, a flashbulb… Somehow it had multiplied. One camera turned into three or four, but it couldn’t be helped. Every item was essential. The chance had come at long last—a second chance that most people never got. Blair couldn’t risk botching it again.
Not like the last time.
Blair couldn’t quite suppress the momentary flare of irritation at the thought. The memory still rankled—walking away with nothing but the photos to show for it. So many photos, and not one of them had been right. One image slightly out of focus. Another poorly lit. Even the ones that achieved technical perfection hadn’t proven satisfying. Something was missing from all of them: some essence of that inner human fire, so difficult to capture in a single frame.
Blair didn’t want to leave it to chance this time. The right equipment could make or break a shot. That meant a few different cameras. A folding tripod. A variety of filters and diffusers. Some rolls of cord and duct tape. And don’t forget a good, sharp knife…