His laugh and his smile are so infectious that I find myself smiling too. “I wanted to share the good news, that’s all.” I slip back into the dressing room and stare at myself in the mirror one more time before reluctantly removing the dress.
I know now why the princesses in those ancient fairy tales I heard about as a child always wore a beautiful ball gown that transformed them into something more, something pretty, something perfect even. It’s because when wearing it and standing in front of the mirror, it feels like there’s a world of possibilities at one’s fingertips. You can be anyone you want to be, go anywhere you want to go—for an hour or a day or a small moment, you can be someone other than yourself. Who wouldn’t want to experience the splendor of that?
As I fold the dress over my arm, the one thought that keeps running through my mind is…
What will Trey think when he sees me?
***
At GIGA, some of our required reading included poems from poets long ago. Poets from another time, another place, a place that existed before Pacifica. I always had a hard time understanding some of the poetry. Most of them were about love or loss, longing or desperation. Things I’d never experienced until I left school.
Later that night, while Zane and I are curled up on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, I decide to give poetry another try.
“Where’s that poetry book you brought?” I ask him.
Zane gets up, crosses the room, and pulls it from his duffle bag. “This one?”
I nod and take the book from his outstretched hand. Zane settles next to me with his own book. I’m skimming through the poems when one catches my eye. It’s called Forget Thee? by John Moultrie, a poet from the 17th Century. I read through the whole poem, but it’s the last stanza that really speaks to me.
Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free,
For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me;
Yet, while that heart is still unwon, O, bid not mine to rove,
But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining love;
If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not,
Forget me then;—but ne’er believe that thou canst be forgot!
I read through it twice, both times pausing after each line, contemplating the words, the lyrical phrases, and the poetic meaning. I read the last stanza over and over. As much as I would love to believe that I could forget about Trey and move on, he’s left an imprint on me. Maybe that’s what a first love does. It changes you, molds you into someone different, and you can never go back to being the person you were before. I can’t go back to a time before I loved Trey. Nor to who I was before I met him. I can’t bury those feelings or pretend they don’t exist. Sure, they may fade with time, but like the poem says, “Thou canst be forgot!”
When I look up from the book, Zane is staring at me. “What?” I say.
“Nothing. You look so serious over there, like you’re contemplating adaptive mutation or something.”
“Just thinking,” I say.
He holds out his hand. “May I?”
Before I hand the book to him, I dog-ear the page with the Forget Thee? poem.
“Do you want to read my favorite?” he asks, flipping through the pages. “I think I finally understand what the author was referring to.” He gives me a mischievous grin before passing the book back, this time open to page 232. He points to the poem on the right titled Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley.
As I start to skim over the poem, he calls out, “Read it out loud, please.”
Rolling my eyes, I give him an exasperated sigh. Then I begin.
“The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?—
“See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?”
When I’m finished reading, Zane is grinning at me, his perfect white teeth and his perfect smile on display.
“Are you hinting at something?” I say.
Zane scoots closer and repeats the last line of the poem. “‘What is all this sweet work worth, if thou kiss not me?’”
“Seriously? You’re reciting me love poems to entice me to kiss you?”
“Yes. But only if it’s working.” His eyes search my face for a sign.
When I don’t refuse, he leans in, and every nerve in my body hums with anticipation. He hasn’t kissed me since the procedure, and I wonder if it will feel different. Will I still like it?
But as his lips meet mine, I feel the same thrilling rush, the same dizzying effect, and the same glowing warmth.
Then an image of Trey creeps to my brain—all broad-shouldered and smiles, and I quickly pull away from Zane.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. I can see the hurt on his face, and it kills me. It really does.
My fingers cover my lips, lips that are still tingling from the kiss. Lips that still want more. But words of a different poem seep into my mind: Ne’er believe that thou canst be forgot!
“I don’t think we should do that anymore,” I say hesitantly. A part of me wants to say to hell with it all and kiss Zane like he’s never been kissed before, but the part of me with a conscience—the little angel sitting on my shoulder—is telling me to simmer down. I haven’t forgotten Trey, so why am I pretending that I have? How can I with one mouth pronounce that I love Trey and with that same mouth kiss Zane like the world is about to implode? Am I really that fickle?
Shaking my head, I rise from the couch. “I’m sorry. I think I should go to bed.” My eyes refuse to meet Zane’s as I place the book on the chipped coffee table and climb into my side of the bed, facing the wall. The light clicks off, and I feel the mattress shift with Zane’s weight as he gets in on his side. A moment later, his hand touches my arm.
“Sienna—”
I roll over to face him, but I still can’t look at him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know I’ve placed you in an awful position, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.” His fingers gently guide my chin, tilting it until I’m forced to look at him. “Okay?” he murmurs.
“Okay,” I repeat. I want to tell him how I’m feeling, how torn I am between the two of them, how if there wasn’t a Trey, there would be no question, but instead, I whisper goodnight and turn away from him.
24
SIENNA
The turquoise dress glides over my skin as it settles into place. It’s as beautiful as it was that day in the shop, and nervousness sets in when I think of wearing it out in public. It’s one thing to stare at myself in a mirror wearing the dress, but it’s another thing entirely for other people to see me in it, namely Trey.
When I exit the bathroom, Zane is already waiting for me. He’s pacing the floor, wearing a tux. His outfit reminds me of the night I saw him at the celebratory ball at his house—the night I tried to poison his father. And here, in this pitiful excuse for a motel room, we both look tremendously out of place.
He stops mid-stride when he sees me, and his mouth drops open a little. His eyes start at my face and work their way down my body, leaving a heated trail behind. I’m so flushed by the time his eyes make their way back to my face that I feel like I need to be doused with a firehose.
Once he’s recovered, he stammers, “Wow, Sienna, you look… incredible.”
Ducking my head because I’m too embarrassed to meet his eyes, I say, “Thanks. You clean up nicely too
.”
An awkward silence follows, and I’m keenly aware of Zane’s lingering eyes. After a moment, he clears his throat. “I got you something,” he says quickly, holding up a plastic grocery bag.
“What is it?” I ask.
His fingers find my elbow, leading me to the bathroom. “I was thinking you need a disguise for the gala tonight. What if Radcliffe is there?”
“You already called his office and confirmed that he won’t be there, remember?”
“Still. I think we should be safe.” Zane sets the bag on the pedestal sink and pulls out a wig. A platinum blonde wig, to be exact.
“You bought me a wig?” I ask him incredulously.
Zane’s mouth lifts into a grin. “Your red hair does stand out.”
“But why blonde? Why in the world did you get blonde?”
He shrugs. “I thought most girls like blonde.”
Huffing, I snatch the wig from his hands. I expect the “hair” to be coarse and totally fake feeling, but it’s surprisingly lustrous and soft. “Is this real hair?”
“Of course.”
Frowning, I pull the wig over my short hair, tuck in the few strands that slip out, and look at myself in the mirror. The wig is long, wavy, and curls around my face. It feels like forever since I’ve had long hair, but it does make me look more feminine. As for the blonde? Well, that’s an analyzation for another day. All I know is that blonde makes me think of Rayne, which produces a ball of fire in my chest.
“It’s perfect,” Zane says, watching my reflection in the mirror. “I miss the red, but it’s a great disguise.”
I turn to him, making a face. “I don’t know why you had to get blonde,” I grumble.
Chuckling, Zane says, “Do you have your Lynk?”
As part of our plan tonight, I need old pictures of my father, which I still have embedded on my Lynk. Yesterday, as I scrolled through photos I haven’t looked at in years, it made me miss all the things that made Mom, Dad, Emily, and me a family. There’s one of my father and me at a middle grade Daddy/Daughter dance, and one of my dad swinging Emily around by her armpits, their mouths frozen in laughter, and another one of my mother and father dancing in our living room. I think that one is my favorite.
I pat the matching clutch I picked out, that Zane bought for me, to go with the dress he also bought. “Yep, I have it.”
Offering his arm, Zane says, “Then your chariot awaits.”
I slide my arm through his. Outside the motel, Zane’s car and driver are waiting to take us to the Marmet, the Museum of Fine Art, where the gala will be held tonight. As Zane lifts open the door for me, I slip inside the black vehicle, carefully arranging my skirts as I do. Once he’s settled next to me on the oversized seat, the door closes automatically. The nervousness that I’d managed to squash so far surges up. Tonight, I will see both Trey and my father. And this time when I see my father, I won’t be drugged. I’ll be fully awake, aware, and ready for answers.
Once we’re on the road, I can feel Zane’s eyes on me. Without turning to look at him, I say, “If you keep staring at me like that, I’m telling Geoff to take me back to the Restful 8 Motel so I can change into ratty jeans and a T-shirt.”
Zane gives a low chuckle. “I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time tearing my eyes away from you. I promise I’ll behave.” But even as he says it, he leans over and kisses my forehead.
I turn to him, my eyes wide. “What was that for?”
“In case I forget to tell you later.”
“Tell me what?”
“That I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“It’s because of the blonde hair,” I mumble.
“No,” he says. “It’s because of you.”
Heat rises from my chest and up my neck before settling in my cheeks. I’m sure I’m all splotchy now, thanks to Zane and his flattery. Do I like what he’s saying? Of course. But he’s making this so much harder for me.
“Zane—” I murmur.
Zane holds up a hand to stop me. “No more, I promise. That’s the last nice thing I’ll say to you for the rest of the night. From now on, I’ll only comment on how messy your hair is, how much you’re perspiring—those kinds of things.”
A giggle slips out. “And I’ll be sure to eat with my hands, and wipe my nose on the hem of my dress, anything to turn you off.”
Zane nods as if he’s seriously contemplating this. “My own little cavewoman. I have to say, I kind of like it.”
Tipping my head back, I laugh. A few of the nervous knots that have taken up residence in my stomach loosen ever so slightly.
I turn my attention to the window, keeping my eyes focused on the passing scenery. The sun is lazily setting behind mirrored buildings, causing the rest of the sky to turn from burnt orange to the color of autumn leaves. Waves of pink, like cotton candy, are smeared across the sky as though they were glossed with a paintbrush. I crane my neck to watch the colors swirl and fade as if they’re being sucked into a vacuum. Soon, all that’s left of the sun are tiny tendrils of light, reflected in the mirrored buildings, and then they too are gone.
By the time we reach the Marmet, the sky has darkened and tiny stars now dot the sky. I like watching the transformation of day to night. The ending of one day, the residual rise and fall of the sun, the promise of a new one to come. It reminds me of rebirth.
The Marmet is a large, ostentatious building that looks mostly like a fortress. The exterior has enough detailed carving and even a decorative parapet to give it that castle look. Depictions of coats of arms are cut into the stone and lit up with a spotlight. A line of sleek black vehicles has already started to form in front of the steps that lead up to the entrance. I watch as couple after couple exit their vehicles, women wearing expensive gowns, their chests and ears bedecked in sparkling jewels, their fingers gripping tiny clutches, the men in perfectly pressed suits and polished black shoes. Instinctively, my fingers touch the delicate locket at my neck. Zane wanted to buy me fancy jewelry for tonight, but I insisted this was enough. It will always be more than enough.
When it’s almost our turn, Zane hands me the tiny earbud that will keep us connected throughout the night. I insert it into my ear and pull my shawl tighter around me. The last thing I need is for my Fringe tattoo to glow up in front of everyone. Zane looks at me and says, “You ready?”
Swallowing hard, I nod. We wait for the driver to lift open the door, and then Zane steps out and offers me his hand. But as I’m trying to step out, my foot gets caught in the skirt’s layers. I’m about to face plant on the pavement when Zane grabs my elbow, steadying me. I give him a grateful look.
Chuckling, he slides my hand through his arm and leads me up the stairs. When we reach the threshold of the building, two guards are there checking invitations and guest lists. Zane pulls his invitation from inside his suit jacket and flashes it at the guard.
“Zane Ryder. My father RSVP’ed, so it may be under his name.”
The guard raises his bushy eyebrows when he hears Zane’s name. His eyes flit to me—and I stiffen—then back to Zane, before settling on me. “And you are?”
“This is Shauna Tate, my assistant,” Zane smoothly says, repeating the lie we concocted earlier.
A small line of people has started to form behind us, and I can feel sweat beading up under my armpits. Thankfully, Zane appears calm and collected beside me.
The guard consults his list one more time before saying, “Welcome, Mr. Ryder. It’s a pleasure to have you with us tonight.”
Zane nods. Placing his hand on the small of my back, he guides me into the museum. When we first enter, all I want to do is stop and stare, but Zane continues to propel me forward until we’re out of the way of the people behind us.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, my head tipping back to stare at the columned arch openings, the grand staircase leading to the second level, and the high ceilings and skylights that allow a view of the stars. There’s even a fountai
n in the middle of the atrium, complete with multiple tiers of trickling water, adding a peaceful, calming effect.
“You’ve never been?” Zane asks, keeping his voice low.
“Is it that obvious?” I whisper back.
Zane chuckles. “Only a little.” He glances around. “Should we split up or stay together?”
“Let’s split up. Once you have eyes on either my father or Trey, let me know.”
“Okay.” He looks at me. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
I’m about to walk away, but Zane grabs my arm and pulls me back. When he speaks, his voice is low, urgent. “If Radcliffe is here, we abort. Remember?”
“I know.” Running into Radcliffe has been our biggest concern since we first started planning this. But he’s not supposed to be here. Zane called Radcliffe’s secretary a few days ago and confirmed this. It seems odd that Radcliffe, as the head of the AIG, would choose to miss this event, though.
I slip my shawl off and drape it across my arm, giving Zane an encouraging smile. “I’ll be fine,” I whisper, but as I turn away, I can feel his concerned eyes boring into my back.
As I walk through the large hall, I pretend to scan the paintings, but instead, I’m surveying people. When a caterer offers me a sparkling glass of champagne from the tray he’s holding, I shake my head. I try to blend in, to pretend I belong, but I suddenly wish Zane were with me. It would be so much easier to fit in with Zane and his overabundance of confidence beside me. I’m about to ask him where he is when a voice behind me says, “You know, they have coat closets where you can hang your shawl.”
I know that voice. I know it so well that I could pick it out in a crowd of a thousand people, and as I turn to face him, a tremor runs through me.
Trey is staring at me, his head cocked to the side. His eyes run over my face and travel down the length of my body, and I suddenly feel as if every part of me has gone up in flames. His hair is slicked back, and his muscled body is enveloped in a tux that fits him snug in the shoulders and drapes the rest of his frame like it was made for him. And when I see him standing there, a cocky grin on his face, his hands large and familiar, all I want to do is wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him.
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