Standing a few feet from Theo, I wait for him, watching his eyes roam every inch of my outfit, my hair, my makeup, the high stiletto shoes with a peep toe, red nails peeking through. An eternity passes, and soon, I start to feel self-conscious. “Is this . . . Is this okay?” I ask, fighting the urge to bite my lip because even though my lips are stained red (an alleged “kiss-proof” find from Abbie, my resident makeup guru), I don’t trust that kind of shit not to smudge or transfer to my teeth. He doesn’t speak still, instead staying leaned against the wall, ankles crossed at his shiny wing-tip
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