His eyelids are hanging low. I almost laugh. Poor girl.

“Wait until after V-Day,” I tell her. “You need a date.”

She has to hang on to him for ten more days, at least.

Taking the bottle out of my hands, she throws back a swallow as I grab her shirts and toss them to waiting hands.

Music and laughter surround us, the confetti gun shooting another bomb into the air—blue, pink, silver, and gold fluttering like snow.

“God, that stuff is good.” She hands me the bottle back. “Goes down like water.”

“As long as you don’t drink sixty-four ounces a day, got it?” I joke, taking one more drink and capping my new favorite brand of vodka, the perfect liquor to be disguised in my Evian bottle.

She scrunches up her face in a funny smile, her apple cheeks perfect, and long, chestnut hair in a messy bun on the top of her head.

“What would I do without you?” she teases.

I chuckle. “The only thing any of us need is a little love…” I lean in, whispering, “from the right bottle.”

She laughs, and we both hop down from the float, leaving Amy to man it, while we join the girls in the last chorus of the dance.

My head floats a few feet above my neck, the “help” we just drank giving me just the right buzz that I’ll sweat off in twenty minutes, but enough to put a spring in my step.

Callum and Milo follow us, Callum watching me move as I step and tease him with my eyes. Little girls cheer us on, looking up at me like I’m something, while a couple guys hover close together, staring at me and whispering between them.

I move in ways our facilitator will certainly hear about on Monday, but I don’t care. I rub in their face something they’ll never get.

Because even at twelve, strutting down a pageant stage in a bikini, I knew what my power was. There’s no confusion.

“We love you, Clay!” some of my classmates scream as I lead the group and finish the dance.

I close my eyes, soaking up all the phone cameras recording us and the pictures that will survive of Clay Collins long after I was gone. Images that will show who I am far louder than I can ever tell.

Homecoming Queen.

Prom Queen.

Cute, while my looks last, and Omega Chi Kappa sweetheart.

That’s me.

I open my eyes, immediately seeing myself in the window of a parked car at the curb. I bring up my hand, pushing the lock of blonde hair back in place.

We all have to be something, I guess.

• • •

“Are you sure you have to go?” Krysten says from the back seat of Callum’s Mustang. “Have you even slept the past twenty-four hours?”

I climb out of the passenger side seat and shoot her a look as Milo sits next to her, hanging his arm around her.

I slept last night. Minus a couple hours to finish readying the float.

I close the door and lean on the convertible, meeting Callum’s eyes in the driver’s seat. “Get her home safe?” I ask.

God knows, Milo’s too dumb to do it.

“Maybe,” he taunts.

“Then maybe I’ll think about coming to your birthday party in a couple of weeks.” I swing my bag over my shoulder and dig inside, pulling out a wipe to clean the sparkly Greek letters off my cheeks. “Still haven’t had a proper tour of your parents’ lake house,” I tell him. “Heard you have a really big…shower.”

He flashes that winning grin we’ll see when he accepts his Heisman someday. “Big enough for ten, plus me.”

Yeah, okay.

He sits there, that confident gleam in his eyes like everyone wants to be near him, and he’ll wait for me to realize that.

“Come here,” he urges.

Slowly, I lean in, giving him ninety, so he only has to give me ten and still look like the man, and he kisses me, coming in again and again, his wet tongue grazing my bottom lip before he pulls back.

Holding back, so I’ll come running for more.

“You were amazing tonight, babe,” Milo said, squeezing Krysten. “You both were.”

I hold Callum’s eyes as I stand upright again. “Thank you for coming.”

“I think they liked it,” he says. “You dancing for me.”

I smile, backing away toward the dress shop.

He shifts the car into gear, takes off, and I spin around, wiping off my mouth.

I hate kissing. Wet and slobbery like a damn slug flopping around my mouth.

I pull open the door to Lavinia’s on the Avenue and stroll in, tossing the wipe out on the sidewalk behind me.

The streets of St. Carmen still buzz with foot traffic, cafés and local hot spots swarming with people enjoying a quiet night al fresco with friends. The parade ended more than an hour ago, and even though it took us that long to get our gear cleaned up and Amy’s father to get the float clear of the gridlock and on his way home finally, I still wasn’t done for the day.

Walking into the boutique where gowns are displayed on mannequins, I cross the white carpet and pass the reception desk where my mother is sitting in the lounge area.

She spots me. “Talk tomorrow,” she says into her phone.

“I’m here now,” I tell her, knowing she’s going to whine.

“I’ve been waiting an hour.” She rises from the white-cushioned high-back chair and sticks her phone into her handbag. “Call next time.”

I chuckle under my breath as I keep walking and she follows. It’s not like I can control how fast the parade moves.

Her chunky gold and pearl bracelet jingles as she enters the dressing area behind me, and I set my bag down next to the chair near the floor-length mirrors. I glance at her in the reflection, noticing my gold necklace draped across her tanned chest, visible in her flowing, deep V-neck blouse.

Coiffed golden hair, perfectly tailored black slacks that hug her three-spin-classes-a-week ass, and squeaky-clean right down to her trimmed cuticles. My mother’s body hasn’t seen a carb, other than champagne, in at least twelve years. Pretty sure it’s in cryo-freeze at this point, simply relying on eggs and hair spray to animate.

In ten minutes, I’m on the riser in front of the mirror and wearing the debutante gown my mother had designed for me.

“Oh, Lavinia,” she says, holding her hands to her cheeks as she circles me. “You’ve outdone yourself. It’s exquisite. I love it. The detail…”

I look away from my image in the mirror, clenching my jaw as hard as I can to contain myself.

My mother rushes up to me as the older lady remains back, taking in her work and looking for any final fixes.

“Clay?” my mom urges me. “What do you think?”

I look down at her, struggling to keep my emotions from bubbling up my throat. I fold my lips between my teeth, about to burst.

She doesn’t care what I think. She wants me to lie.

“It’s, um…” I choke on the words, a snort escaping. “It’s so beautiful. I’m speechless.”

And I can’t do it anymore. Laughter pours out of me as I take in the big, fat, hoop-skirt monstrosity in the mirror that makes me look like Scarlett Fucking O’Hara, complete with puffed sleeves and some dumbass ruffle around the waist. I’m tempted to look for the stains of Lavinia’s tears of laughter all over the dress as she sewed this bullshit.