I let him pull me close to him. He takes the camera from me, turning it to face us.
“It’s not easy to take a selfie with that thing,” I warn him.
He maneuvers the long fingers on his large hand around the casing, easily holding it with the lens pointed at us and his finger on the trigger.
“Or it’s really easy,” I mutter.
His body shakes mine with silent laughter. “Smile pretty.”
I do as he says, smiling big even though it hurts. My face is sore from how often I’ve smiled with him in the last few days, and I think that shouldn’t happen to a person. I shouldn’t be out of shape at being happy. I feel it when I’m with him, though. Like I’m getting a much needed workout. Like he’s a trainer getting me back into form.
I lean into him, my head on his shoulder the way I thought about last night. It’s better than I imagined. Solid and warm, that scent of his curling around me in an embrace I can feel everywhere, even before his arm goes around me to hold me closer. We’re looking up at the blank eye of the lens, smiling as he takes multiple shots to make sure no one is blinking because the guy is a pro at this. I wonder briefly how he can stand to stare into a lens so often, for so long. Giving and giving to a vacuum that will never be satisfied, never getting anything back. Feeding himself to masses he’ll never know.
Is that fun for him? Because it sounds like Hell to me.
Colt has to leave close five to make it to practice on time, but not before he makes me upload the photo of us to the bakery’s social media sites, tagging him so he can share it on his. He wants a copy of it, he tells me. He wants a picture of me being sweet so he can remember it the next time I’m sour. He says it like he knows there’ll be a next time, but he doesn’t mind. I think he’s looking forward to it.
He kisses me when he goes. It’s softer than the other night. Slow and patient. Lingering. It’s tiramisu and I’m lightheaded from the taste of it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LILLY
Palmetto Warehouse
Los Angeles, CA
“This is what I love about L.A.,” Rona tells me thoughtfully. “Looking at it from here, this is either a very swanky apartment building or it’s a murder haven, and you won’t know which until you get inside.”
“It’s like a box of chocolates.”
“It is not like a box of chocolates and I’ll thank you to never affect a Forest Gump accent again.”
“Sorry.”
“Thank you.”
I cock my head at the three story industrial monster staring darkly back from across the street. “Do we take a chance and go in or do we say, ‘not tonight, axe murderers’, and hit up El Pollo?”
“You’re high if you think I’m not going inside that party.”
“I’m not high, but are you holding? It might take the edge off.”
“When am I ever holding?” she asks in amazement.
I shrug. “It never hurts to ask.”
“Come on,” she laces her arm through mine to pull me across the street. “Maybe some nice man inside will have illicit drugs he’ll be happy to share with you. The odds are in your favor.”
“I wasn’t serious.”
“Well, I was about going inside so quit dragging your feet.”
I’m not dragging my feet. I’m not reluctant to go inside either. I’m excited to see Colt. And nervous. Really nervous, because even though I grew up in L.A. and I’ve been to a handful of parties sporting the occasional famous face, it’s different this time. It’s a guy I really like and he is the famous face. A thousand scenarios have been going through my mind all day. The most popular reel I’m running is Scenario #1, or what I like to call the Bitch Beauties. It’s an image born of countless Mean Girl movies I watched all through high school and it plays out like this; there’s a gaggle of gorgeous women at this party, all dressed perfectly in cute little dresses and matching purses while I stand off to the side looking frumpy in my jeans, sequined tank, and slouchy cardigan. I’m comfortable, cute even, but somehow that makes it worse than looking like shit. Reaching and falling short of the mark is more humiliating than never trying, and these girls know it. They get wind that Colt invited me and I’m immediately ripped to shreds for not being pretty enough for him.
Scenario #2 is that he ignores me the entire time, I feel weird being there, and I go home to drink vodka from the bottle until infomercials come on. Then I promptly pass out.
Scenario #3 is where—
Colt smiles from ear to ear when he opens the door and finds us there. Loud music and laughter pours from the massive apartment behind him. The place is bigger than I expected but there are fewer people. Only twenty bodies or so milling around. For a notorious party boy like Colt, it looks pretty tame.
He immediately puts his arms around me to pull me into a gentle hug that takes my breath away.