Best Served Fake

forty-four // mass exodus

When Kai saw me in the green dress, I was almost positive that he didn't mind that I'd blackmailed him for something he'd never done. Of course, I still felt pretty bad about that, but with my makeup perfect and Kai standing with his mouth slightly open, leaning against the car, I just felt pretty.

Mum had spent hours painstakingly curling my hair, a process that shouldn't have taken so long, except that had always been prone to fits of inattention, and was easily distracted by the episode of Gilmore Girls we had in the background. I didn't mind, though. It was nice to go to an event with Kai—an event that would cement our fake relationship and, if I strapped on a pair and he somehow was receptive, (instead of thinking I was a weirdo who blackmailed innocent sexy people), our real one—and I was happy to use the time to contemplate all the ways this weekend could go so right.

Or so horrendously hide-under-the-covers-for-a-year wrong.

It was why I'd rejected Kai's offer for a lift to the wedding. He probably thought it was weird; Casserine was a few hours away, and it made more sense to carpool. But I needed an out if this went tits up, and I wasn't strong enough to face being turned down and immediately proceed to three hours cooped up in a car together. He is going to say yes, Valerie. You know he likes you. It's right.

It felt right, standing in the carpark of my stunning wedding venue, pinned under the weight of Kai's appreciative gaze. It also felt nerve-wracking. My thoughts raced, a nonsensical ramble of what I felt, the feelings that pulsed in time with the thump of my heartbeat, and what logic told me could be true. Like the petals of a daisy, peeled off one by one to the sing-song chant of loves me, loves me not.

He looks at you like he likes you, Valerie, my heart squeaked

My nervous stomach sung a different tune. He looks at you like he's always looked at pretty girls, the same way you look at pretty guys, Valerie.

Back and forth, mind and heart and nerves.

It's different, you know it is.

You just want to know it is.

I was a fucking mess of nerves, but at least it didn't show on the outside. Because I was looking hot, goddammit.

In front of me, Kai—who, coincidentally, also looked fucking hot—blinked, rearranging that open-mouthed stare into a sweet smile. "You look beautiful," he said.

Well, okay, I was beautiful. That was better than hot.

"God, I'm so good," Isabelle said from behind him, winding down the window to reveal her grinning face. She was fiddling with something out of sight, most likely sliding on her heels. Her eyes scanned me with as much appreciation as Kai, although her gaze was a self-satisfied one rather than a horny one—always a positive. "I should dress celebrities for a living. I have a gift."

She wasn't wrong; she was always stylish herself, and she'd picked a dress that was a dead-ringer for my own personal style. I could even imagine her as a stylist, mostly because celebrities would want to hang out with her. She was two years younger than me, and twice as effortlessly cool. Her makeup was pristine, light and natural, but it leant her a glamorous touch.

Around us, well-dressed guests were departed their cars too, stopping to exclaim greetings to one another. There was an interesting amalgamation of guests, one that would probably be more apparent to a woman of class of fashion. The groom, Jack, was from Casserine; a country boy, a friend of Zac Delaney's, and, Kai explained, from a working-class family. And the bride was a Montez; if you cut her open, she would probably bleed money. The outfits worn by some of the guests must've cost thousands, and they were sharply juxtaposed by the rather nice, but inexpensive, outfits donned by Casserine folk. While the Delaney's, and myself, cleaned up alright, we were still firmly in the latter category.