Events like this always came with a heavy dose of anxiety. Jac fettered in front of the mirror for hours, making minor adjustments to her hair, fixing and re-fixing her lipstick. She didn’t want it to be good enough, and it was a heavy pill to swallow that good enough was all she could afford. Her dress had arrived a day earlier— drastically out of her price range with tuition for the fall semester due in the next few weeks and requiring alterations that took her all night to complete. The end result was something floaty and red, a bright punch of colour in a late season Oscar de la Renta. She could see her illusion cracking like old paint, splitting during a crucial moment at the party (a toast maybe, or during a conversation with an influential senator) and revealing her true self beneath— not ugly, exactly, but common. Normal. It left a bitter taste in the back of her throat.

Her date was prompt at picking her up, and she endured the ride over with the grace and dignity of a diplomat. He was nearly meaningless to her, another trust fund boy who talked too loudly, with too much money and an inflated sense of self worth. Still, he didn’t ask many questions, he complimented her furiously and he didn’t insist he come inside her boss’ house. Arrival into the event was easier on someone else’s arm, the host appreciated it more than the independence of someone going stag. Snagging a drink as soon as she entered, she left her date to brag about whatever baseball team his father owned to explore the party. The house was beautiful, excessively so. Jac sipped at her fluted glass and leaned against an ornate column, content to watch as more and more people filtered through, making note on what they wore and how they held themselves. One particular person came through, curly head ducked slightly but she still recognized him instantly. Her heart choked in her chest, the grip on her glass turned her knuckles white. Fuck.