Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“I miss you,” I write. Then I delete it.
Instead, I shove my phone in my bag, grab my student ID, and go out into the hallway. The air is cold, the building silent. I head to the bathroom and stare at my reflection until I don’t recognize the girl looking back.
Tonight, I’m supposed to be someone new.
But all I feel is the same old Simone: empty, electric, waiting for something that will never come.
I straighten my tank and walk back to my room, bracing myself for whatever comes next.
When I get back to my room, Andie is already there, waiting for me with a pile of outfits spread across my sheets like she’s a human version of a tornado siren. Her face is bright with anticipation and the remnants of Sephora’s “Glow Stick” highlighter.
“Okay, sit,” she orders, pulling me down onto my own bed. “We have exactly two hours to transform you from tragic waif to sex goddess, and I’m not wasting a second.” She’s already sorted my closet into three piles: ‘cute,’ ‘slutty,’ and ‘maybe when you’re forty.’
She holds up the black dress first, a bodycon number I bought for a sorority event but never wore. “Try this one. With your boobs, it’s gonna look insane. I’ll get the push-up.”
I shuck off my clothes, letting the new dress slither up my thighs and hug me like a vacuum-sealed sausage casing. My chest threatens to revolt, the fabric barely containing the twin orbs of my D-cups.
Andie steps back, eyes wide. “Oh my god, Simone. It’s criminal. You look like you could break up marriages.”
I glance at my reflection in the mirror, half-expecting to see a stranger. The effect is jarring: my tits look huge, my waist tiny, my thighs smooth as poured milk. I barely recognize myself.
Andie purses her lips, sizing me up for a moment. “Perfume is what you need,” she declares, then mists me with something sweet and floral, the particles hanging in the air like a weaponized mood.
“Now sit,” she says, shoving me in front of the desk mirror. She lines up her artillery—eyeshadow, mascara, three shades of lip stain—and gets to work. Her hands are deft, practiced, her chatter running nonstop.
“You know, Dylan Tourneau only dates the hottest girls. Like, no offense, but I didn’t think you were his type. You’re more, like, hot girl who’s a poetry major than pool party girl.”
I let her talk, drifting in and out. The brush of her fingers is soothing, but every stroke reminds me of Liam’s hands, rough and assured, the way he’d grabbed my chin, forced me to look at him while he fucked my mouth.
I check my phone again, thumb twitching. Still nothing from Liam. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since he told me to turn in the essay, since he vanished from my life with the efficiency of a magician’s trick.
Andie smacks my hand. “Stop doom-scrolling. Focus. This is your night.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, but my attention keeps drifting. “What do you think Dylan expects?”
She shrugs, applying mascara with tiny, stabbing motions. “Honestly? He probably thinks you’ll fuck him. But, like, it’s college. Everyone expects that. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, babe.”
“Right,” I say, but the words feel weird in my mouth. I wonder what it would feel like to have Dylan’s hands on me, his mouth on my tits, his cock inside me. The idea is…okay, I guess. Good, even. But not electric. Not dangerous.
Andie taps highlighter onto my cheekbones, then steps back, arms crossed. “I think we’ve reached peak hotness. Put on the heels, and let’s see the final look.”
I wriggle into black stilettos which Andie insists are “required footwear for a Century College goddess.” When I look in the mirror this time, the effect is total: hair shiny, lips glossy, cleavage front and center. I look ready for a magazine cover, or a mugshot.
Andie claps her hands. “You are going to destroy him.”
I don’t feel like a destroyer. I feel like a mannequin in a window: glossy, hollow, waiting for someone to decide if I’m worth the price.
Andie paces the room, gathering my phone, my clutch, my student ID. She talks as she moves, a swirl of logistics and advice.
“Don’t talk about exes. Don’t mention the Professor unless Dylan does first. If you feel awkward, just ask about swimming. It’s his whole personality. And remember, you don’t owe him anything.”
I nod, letting her voice wash over me. I want to text Liam, want to ask if he’s thinking of me, if he dreams about me at night the way I do him. But the blank phone screen tells me everything I need to know.
Andie opens the window, letting in the scent of wet leaves and cold air. The afternoon sunlight slants across the room, throwing long shadows onto the floor. She spritzes herself with more perfume, then spins to face me.