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There’s no time to ease me into this, and maybe that’s what I need—to just be immersed in something so fully that I can’t even think too hard about it.
Anna sniffs the air. “What?” Drew asks. “What is it?” Anna crosses her arms. “Smells like fate. Looks like fate. Must be fate.”
When someone calls me brave for going out or wearing a fitted dress or for some other normal thing that every other girl does, what it really means is: I would be mortified to look like you, but good for you for merely existing even if all I can think about is how fat you are and how I’m terrified I’ll one day look like you. So brave.
Girls like Addison have never been threatened by girls like me, and I can’t help it. I love watching these tables turn.
The universe is a series of reactions. Will you be the re or the action?”
“Get off me, you cow!” Addison says just loudly enough for me to hear. I grin down at her as I take out my mouthpiece. “Just playing by the rules. Moo, bitch. Moo.”
So many people in this industry act like clothing is for everyone, but fashion is only for a select few. The truth, though, is that clothing is fashion and fashion should be for everyone because clothing should be for everyone.
“This is taking a serious Titanic turn,” he says, and cups his hands together. “Bloop.” “Bloop?” I ask. “What is bloop?” “You know, bloop, there goes the heart-of-the-ocean-necklace thing. That’s, like, the ultimate Titanic reference.” “Uh, I think not,” I tell him defiantly. “Maybe Kate Winslet’s hand on the steamy window. Or ‘Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack.’ Or the band playing as the ship goes down! Or even the door that Jack makes Rose float on. But not bloop. That is not high on the list of Titanic pop-culture references.”
My eyes flutter shut for a few moments, and even though I can’t distance myself enough from the cameras and crew and boat staff to actually fall asleep here against Henry’s chest, I’m able to let my mind drift just enough that for a few brief seconds I can trick myself into thinking it’s just the two of us floating on the Titanic door. Because there was definitely room for two.
“He’s dead to me,” Drew says, like a switch has flipped in her brain. “Scorched earth. Dead to me.” Anna nods. “His pulse is nonexistent. The doctor is pronouncing the time of death as now o’clock. They’re calling the morgue. He’s dead.” She sighs lightly.
