Fluffy(54)

He grins. It’s so natural. A shrug and a tighter squeeze are his entire answer.

Alisha’s fingers twitch, moving for her purse, like she needs to text. As if texting about the unreal experience of seeing Will with me is her oxygen.

“I can’t believe it!”

Neither can I.

“Wow! After that whole porn thing? Really, Will?” Punctuating her words, she points to her phone screen, which has the picture of me, Beastman and Will the Dom on it.

No, really, that's the caption: Beastman and Unnamed Dom Spit Roasting.

Reproach fills her voice, but I know it has nothing to do with the porn-set misunderstanding. Will’s not breaking any social codes there.

It’s me.

I’m the violation.

Will kisses my temple and looks at her with a smile.

“Who would have ever guessed Little Miss Perfect and Will would end up together?” she says, deflating me on the spot.

There’s that name again. Little Miss Perfect. The past comes roaring back.

His hold on me tightens. One of my eyebrows is practically on Mars as I tip my head up for an explanation.

Which is interrupted.

“MALLORY AND WILL! OMIGOD!” screams Perky, running across the country club’s event space in high heels like toothpicks, dressed in a sleek red cocktail dress that makes her look even perkier than she really is while pulling off an intoxicating sophistication that makes my classic little black dress seem like a nun’s habit.

“Persephone,” I gasp, knowing she'll appreciate the use of her full name.

Exuding excitement, she gives me a hug, jumping up and down as she whispers, “Screw them all, Mallory. You’re here with Will Lotham and they don’t know what to do with that fact inside their little minds made of tiny boxes.”

“You are the best,” I murmur into her coconut-scented, overly styled hair. There’s so much product in there I’m pretty sure it doubles as a hamster habitrail.

“Can I get you a drink?” Will asks me, then looks at Perky with an expectation that she’ll cough up an answer, too.

“Cocktails?” Perky asks, impressed.

He shrugs. “Whatever they have at the bar.”

“I’ll have a Little Miss Perfect, Will,” I say dryly. “But refresh my memory: what, exactly, is in one of those?”

“Remorse, vodka, and a lot of forgiveness begging?” he replies.

“You forgot the heaping dose of bitters and and two olives on a stick big enough to beat egos to death.”

Leaning in, he whispers, “It was a stupid name one of the guys made up for you. I’m sorry. I should have apologized a long time ago. I thought we were all long past that.”

I look at Alisha. “We are. She isn’t.”

“Then let’s ignore her and let me get you a drink.” A firm touch from him, his hand territorial in a way I like very much, punctuates his words.

“Surprise me!” I say, impulse driving me to loosen up, to be spontaneous. I’m here as Will’s date, so what other people think doesn’t matter. I get to be me.

Maybe this is me.

One side of his mouth goes up, the grin appreciative. Squeezing my arm gently, he fades into the crowd, stopped instantly by a guy who looks like a much more muscular version of Vin Diesel, only twenty years younger and blended with the top two Bollywood actors.

Sameer.

The two do a guy hug. I groan.

Perky leans in and whispers, “Sameer bulked up nice and big. Look at those biceps.” She licks her lips. “The whole package is mighty fine.”

“The whole package is tainted by memories of what an asshole he was.”

“That’s not enough to taint,” she argues back.

“Asshole behavior is like mold on bread.”

“What?”

“You have to throw the whole loaf out once you see even a single spot.”

“Why not just cut off the mold spot? That’s what my grandma does.”

“Because spores don’t work like that, Perk. They bore into the–”

“You are not seriously giving a lecture on fungi at our high school reunion, are you, Mallory Monahan?”

“What? No. I was just–”

Over Perky's shoulder, I see Fiona float in, wearing a gauzy dress that a woodland sprite probably hand spun with silk from her wings. She's every shade of lilac and cream and peach. Hair, too. Big glasses, like Elton John started a crystal company, adorn her face. Most people don't recognize her.

Only the ones who stayed, like me.

Fiona spots us and points to the bar. She gets lost in a crowd, which isn't easy when you're basically a cloud from Avatar in human form.

Perky snorts. “You and your biology lectures. Because you pulled that shit on prom night and it was stupid then, too, only that one was about spirochetes and syphilis.”

“Speaking of people who haven’t changed since high school,” I sniff.

“People change, Mal. You’re not going to last an hour at this shindig if you can’t see that.”

“Shindig?” I look her over. “Where did my BFF Perky go? Who are you in your sleek red dress, ogling Sameer Ramini?”

“I am Persephone Tsongas.” She fluffs her hair, which really doesn’t work given the sheer amount of product in it. Her fingers brush against the strands like she’s testing out a bed of nails. “And Sameer Ramini would be damn lucky to get between my legs,” she says dramatically, like a 1940s glamour actress.