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E L L A
My quickened heartbeat started with the spanking text, sped up when
Logan told me we’d fucked on the hood of his car, but when he gave me a
champagne-flavored kiss, my feet left the ground. Surrounded by the
elation of his family, filled with the helium of happiness, and grounded by
his constant touch, I became a joyful liar. Forgetting I had to keep my story
straight, I drank champagne, toasted to our future, and smiled so hard and
so long my face hurt.
Leaning over the Plexiglas wall around the upper patio, I pointed at the
floor below, where a hundred people danced in the center of a huge blue
pool.
“Let’s dance!” I cried, pulling Logan downstairs.
I’d forgotten why we were upstairs in the first place, and either Logan
forgot as well, or he believed my signal that it didn’t matter anymore.
Before we even got to the dance floor, I saw Bianca in a gown of jewelcolored
silk ribbons my father designed. Mom had been frustrated by the
cost of it, but every season, Dad got to do one outrageous, beautiful thing.
Now my stepmother, the knockoff queen, was wearing it.
She was laughing with Jean-Claude and Val Luke, batting her lashes
like a milkmaid, turning flirtatiously, until her eyes landed on me. “Son of
a—”
“Ella.” Logan said with concern.
“No.” Connected to her by the insult of her wearing that dress, I
threaded through the crowd.
The details of the ribbons were clearer now that I was close. The gold
thread and interior seam finishing. My parents had argued over each