Reece looked like he was about to say something but then thought better of it, his mouth closing into a thin line. He drummed his fingers on the table. “Okay. You know what you’re doing. But if he ever fucks with you again, I will drive up to New York and use that box cutter myself.”
In this current climate, she shouldn’t find a man threatening workplace violence on her behalf romantic. And yet she did.
“You are a catch, you know,” she said. He gave her a funny look, not buying it, but she bit her lip and barreled through her embarrassment. He deserved to know. “I mean it, Reece. You’re in a transition period right now, but you’ll figure it out.”
God help her, his eyes actually softened. A splotch of pink appeared on his cheek. “You will too,” he said. “Team Hammer, yeah?” He extended his fist for her to bump, which she did.
“Absolutely.”
Jackie wove her way back to their table, her plate stacked with brownies and fruit. Charlotte reached for the tote bag on the back of Jackie’s chair and took out a stack of Tupperware containers.
“Oh my god, you guys are evil geniuses,” Reece said.
“We know what we’re doing,” Charlotte agreed, popping off the lids one by one.
Chapter 5
FROM: Roger Ludermore <rl@frontendreview.com>
SUBJECT: FWD: JULY PROFILE OF ORGASMR APP
FROM: Roger Ludermore <rl@frontendreview.com>
SUBJECT: disregard previous about orgasmr app, was a scam
Charlotte tried not to blink as Jackie traced her lash line with a sharp black pencil. Her eyes watered from the strain until Jackie’s face swam before her.
“Please do not stab me, I can’t pull off an eye patch.”
“I won’t stab you if you stop whining,” Jackie chided.
Charlotte missed everything about their Friday night ritual. First came makeup application as they blasted pop music—Hailee Steinfeld belted about self-love from her laptop. Next Jackie would berate her for having nothing to wear, then she’d bully Charlotte into borrowing an outfit. Last, they would replenish their cocktails and toast to the night ahead, and to the morning that felt like it would never ever come.
In college, the beginning of the night was the best part. Anything could happen at Hein: They might fall in love with a stranger, or tell the perfect joke, or have the best sex of their lives. Their giddy anticipation held a certain magic before it could be crushed by parties discovered too early or too late. Hell was other people’s jungle juice.
No roommate would ever come close to Jackie. During the magical three years Charlotte lived with her, they learned about color theory and riot grrrl punk and bell hooks and mysterious UTIs. Every problem was a shared problem, and Jackie encouraged her to take up space in their home. They covered the walls of their apartment with reprints of 1970s concert posters: Debbie Harry’s sultry red lipstick, Patti Smith scowling in a black leather jacket with nothing underneath, Grace Jones’s sharp profile against a bright yellow background. A magnet on the fridge held up a postcard of the Clash’s London Calling album cover.
Charlotte used their decor as inspiration. When she wasn’t preoccupied with homework, she messed around with graphic design and layout. Sophomore year she created posters for Jackie’s late-night radio show: Punk Power Hour with DJ Slaughter, aggressive pink lettering over a high-contrast black-and-white photo of Jackie behind the mic. The poster was a smash hit, and folks around campus took notice. She was asked to make urgent, eye-catching posters for Hein’s Sex Education Club and obnoxious, blocky prints for student bands who paid her in meal plan points. Her artwork spoke for her all over campus. On the page she could be loud, chaotic, and colorful. It felt like Jackie’s influence, or maybe Charlotte just needed her help unleashing her inner defiance.
Charlotte and Jackie were more than friends—they were sisters. They bickered like sisters too. In college they hashed out their issues directly; Jackie insisted on it. But now something was off, a crevasse Charlotte hadn’t noticed until her foot stepped out into empty air.
Why didn’t Jackie tell her about her dad? When did Charlotte stop knowing the important events in her best friend’s life? Or was she being melodramatic? Did Jackie not tell her, or did Charlotte not ask?
“That’s good news,” she blurted out. “About your dad, I mean.”
“Stop talking or I’ll mess up,” Jackie murmured. She licked her thumb to correct a smudge at the corner of Charlotte’s eye. “Okay, that’s done.” She whipped out a mascara wand. “Next!”
Charlotte bit her lip, not sure if she should press Jackie on her deflection. Jackie had always been better at dealing with other people’s problems than facing her own. Maybe she truly didn’t want to discuss it. “None on my lower lashes. I don’t want to be a trash panda.”
“Righto, will skip. Blink?” Jackie coaxed the wand over Charlotte’s upper lashes and made a satisfied noise. “Ugh, that makes such a difference. Your lashes are so light.”
“Part of the whole being-blond thing, I’m afraid.”
Jackie took Charlotte’s jaw in her hand. She moved her head from side to side, studying her face. “I’m thinking no lipstick. Anything I put on you will just wind up all over Reece’s face.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jackie smirked but didn’t comment. “We’re almost done. I’ll give you a lollipop if you can sit still a little longer.”
Charlotte stuck out her tongue.
“Mature,” Jackie teased, but she didn’t laugh. Charlotte stayed still as she smoothed a hint of pink paint across her cheeks with her fingertips. “There. You’re finished.”
Charlotte slid off the bed and examined her reflection in the mirror. It never failed to blow her mind how few products Jackie needed to transform her. Her face looked brighter, her eyes bigger and more vibrant. The woman staring back at her was symmetrical and poised, the makeup subtle but effective.
The exhausted woman who’d arrived on campus yesterday afternoon, harried and dusty, had vanished. She’d been replaced by a dewy blonde with big brown eyes.
“You’re a miracle worker.” Charlotte wiggled her eyebrows at Jackie. “What do you think?”
“Gorgeous. What are you wearing?”
“I have nothing that will impress you. Jeans and a tank top.”
“And let me guess, your loafers.” Jackie sighed. She turned to consider her bookshelf of options. “I can’t believe you have no going-out clothes. The shoes we can’t help, but at least you’ll be comfortable. Here, try this on.” Jackie thrust a short-sleeved button-down in her direction.
Charlotte stripped off her tank top and put on the shirt, running her hands over the linen. It looked vintage, a beachy beige with thin blue vertical stripes. She left the top three buttons undone to reveal the pale column of her throat. Her explosion of messy curls balanced out the boyishness of the fit.
“Beautiful,” Jackie decided. “I want to take you sailing and name our children after the royal family.”
