Limerence: Chapter 21

The weirdness starts next period.

My professor doesn’t bat an eye when I show up to my next class nearly twenty minutes late, but she does ask if I’ve already picked out a dress for the St. Benedict’s Dance.

Apparently, news has spread like wildfire, and I’ve ascended to a new notch on Lionswood’s social ladder: popularity. When I scrounge through my bag in the middle of Biology desperately in search of a pencil, the girl behind me produces one with a smile. “Here you go, Poppy,” she chirps. “You can borrow mine.”

“Oh, thanks, Molly. I’ll make sure I get it back to you before class is over.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” she waves me off, and then leans over her desk with a curious smile. “Have I ever told you how much I love your hair?”

“I don’t think so.”

Well, I know so, considering this is the first time I’ve ever spoken to Molly. I’ve known her name since freshman year – the daughter of some tech CEO and famous ballerina – and I’m almost positive she’s never looked at my hair long enough to form an opinion on it, let alone discern its color.

“It’s so ashy,” she sighs, fiddling with one of her own chestnut curls. “What reference picture do you show your stylist?”

“I don’t. This is my natural color.”

Her face splits into a smile, the gap between her teeth showing. “And your freckles? They’re natural too?”

I nod.

She scoffs, and points to the smattering of brown dots that line the bridge of her nose. “I’m so jealous. I draw mine on. And as soon as I turn eighteen next month, I’m getting them tattooed on.” She grabs her phone from the corner of the desk. “Would you mind if I used yours as inspo to send to my tattoo artist?”

“Uh…sure.”

Molly is not the last student to ask about my hair. Or my freckles.

As I stash my textbooks in my locker following the last class of the day, a shrill voice from down the hall shrieks, “Poppy!”

I don’t recognize the duo of senior girls who descend on me like vultures, armed with questions about my skincare routine, my workout routine, and my makeup routine. And when I tell them that my makeup comes from the CVS down the road and not some luxury-driven PR list, they don’t scoff or laugh.

Not once.

“You’re so minimalistic,” Sadie or Saffie or Sally sighs.

“I love finding a good dupe,” Adelita nods along.

They absorb my answers like gospel, as if the name of my eyeshadow or moisturizer might reveal how I’ve managed to hook Lionswood’s golden boy.

And when I check my notifications on the way back to the West Wing, my jaw drops. More than three hundred follow requests on Instagram. At least a hundred on the Facebook I never use anymore – and at least three people managed to find my Reddit.

Jesus.

I’ve spent four years watching from just behind the sidelines with all the deference you’d give a potted plant, and now, Adrian’s attention has managed to snag everyone else’s.

I should despise this jarring shift.

A stronger, more principled person would.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there wasn’t some satisfaction in finally being someone they found worthy of their envy.

***

I’m still scrolling through DM requests by the time I make it back to my dorm room. At least three different girls stopped me on the way back, gushing over Adrian’s St. Benedict Proposal and asking if they could see pictures of my dress.

As if I needed a reminder about dress shopping.

I sigh, opening my door to the immediate assault of roses – which take up just about every available surface in the cramped dorm, including my bed.

It’s not the worst way to be welcomed home. I approach the bouquet closest to me: the midnight black roses sitting on my dresser, and my mother’s voice rings through my head.

You know they’re serious when they get you flowers, honey, she’d say. Nothing artificial or plastic, but real, hand-cut flowers. That’s when you know.

I reach a tentative hand toward the petals, surprised when I find they’re as real as they look. The petals are silky to the touch and someone – maybe the florists who delivered them – has neatly trimmed the stems and submerged them in water.

Swallowing, I check the other ones too. All real.

My mother is probably the last person I should be taking relationship advice from, but a jittery excitement runs through me all the same. I have no idea where things with Adrian are headed (or where I might want them to head), but I won’t deny the flowers are beautiful.

I go to rearrange some of the bouquets so I have enough space to lie down – but pause when my eye catches a box lodged behind the apricot-colored roses.

Well, that’s not mine.

I don’t recognize the French designer printed across the front, but I’m careful not to damage the red silk ribbon it’s wrapped in as I pull off the top, and –

Oh.

Oh.

I can tell the merlot-colored dress folded and lying on a bed of tissue paper is beautiful before I’ve even pulled it out.

The material is buttery soft between my fingers, and I think it’s supposed to be my size, but there’s no clothing tag on the inside to confirm.

There is, however, a note still in the box, and I turn nearly as red as the fabric when I recognize the elegant scrawl.

One of the benefits to being mine.

Let me know if it fits.

Stuck beneath a few mounds of tissue paper, I discover a pair of matching suede Manolos too.

I’m shrugging out of my school uniform before I can change my mind. It takes me at least two tries to figure out how the long, thick straps that make up the top of the gown are supposed to lie on my body, but when I do, I realize it fits perfectly.

The A-line dress cinches at the waist, and while the sleek bottom-half hugs my hips, the thick sashes on the upper-half wrap over my breasts and tie behind my neck, creating a plunging neckline.

And it’s backless.

I spend several minutes strutting back-and-forth in the mirror, admiring how the silk shimmers like liquid rubies in the light.

This is, by far, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever put on my body – and no doubt the most expensive. I don’t need a price tag to be sure of that second part.

As delicate as it looks, it doesn’t feel like the upcycled fast fashion dresses I’d sometimes find in Mobile thrift stores, the ones that would start fraying almost immediately.

No, this…the seams are sturdy, every stitch intentionally placed to emphasize all the right places.

I can’t bring myself to take it off for a long time.

***

“Do you like the dress?” I feel Adrian before I hear him, a hand gliding over my waist as I stash textbooks in my locker. The movement startles me, but I recover quickly, turning to face him with a stomach full of fluttering nerves.

Propped against my neighbor’s locker, he’s already smiling – a smug grin that tells me he already knows the answer.

And he’s still touching me.

I sigh. This is the part where I tell him that I don’t like the dress. That he can’t buy my affections, and that I’d rather show up to the dance in some thrift-store find than wear the beautiful garment left in my dorm room.

But the words get stuck in my throat.

I just can’t do it.

I can’t force myself to degrade the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen in my life, regardless of Adrian’s intentions.

Growing up the way I have, I shouldn’t sweat a pretty gown and nice shoes – but poverty’s done nothing to make me immune to the thrall of luxury goods.

So, when I open my mouth to tell him I hate it, what comes out instead is: “The dress is lovely.”

I’m just going to have to be weak-willed and impeccably dressed.

There’s a spark of victory in his eyes – as if he understands what I’ve just surrendered. “I’m glad. Normally, I’d have something custom-made, but given the short notice…”

His hand is still resting on my back, the heat of it seeping through my blazer, and I’m not entirely sure how to interact with this version of Adrian. Do I lean into his touch? Do I smack it away? Do I press him against the lockers and make out with him?

Whatever we are – whatever we’re developing into – is uncharted territory for both of us. A friendship with him was weird enough, but at least friendships have clear-cut boundaries. Implied rules to follow. Things you don’t say, places you don’t touch.

I have no fucking clue what the rules are now.

I’m still trying to figure it out when the warning bell rings and Adrian leans down, presses a chaste kiss to the hard line of my jaw and murmurs, “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”

My skin continues to tingle long after he disappears around the corner.

***

Molly invites me to get ready for the dance in her dorm room.

I’m not sure why I say yes – well, I do know why. It’s because Molly’s offer comes with the complimentary services of a professional hairstylist and makeup artist, which saves me from trying to dig my ten-year-old curling iron out of the closet.

The last time I tried using it, it nearly electrocuted me to death.

“I have so many questions for you, Poppy,” Sally says, two chairs down, eyes closed and lips puckered as a makeup artist works her magic. Somehow, Molly’s managed to fit four teenage girls, a hairstylist, a makeup artist, and all their equipment into a dorm room no bigger than mine.

It’s an impressive feat.

“Ask away,” I say, wincing as the hairstylist combs through knots I didn’t even know I had. Molly said I wouldn’t need to pay a dime for any of this, but I’d known the real price of coming here tonight: an Adrian-related interrogation.

“We have to know. How did you and Adrian start dating?” Molly asks. She’s whitening her teeth by the vanity.

“Oh, we’re not –” The stylist’s pulling out the bobby pins now. “Well, things are complicated. We’re exploring things. It’s very new.” I’m staring at Molly’s crystal collection on the wall, and I can feel every single one of their hungry gazes boring into the side of my head.

“Exploring things…” This comes from Adelita, who’s shimmying into a ruffled, cinnamon red gown that compliments her dark complexion. “Is he good in bed? I’ve always wondered.”

I nearly choke on my own saliva as the girls collapse into hysterical giggles, hoping the heat spreading across my face won’t melt the three pounds worth of foundation and concealer I’m wearing. “Uh…”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Molly cuts in, still giggling. “Adelita’s just being nosy.” She shoots her friend a glare that has no real bite to it.

Adelita shrugs. “What? We’re all curious.” A coy smile highlights the beauty mark under her nose. “I bet he is. He’s so generous at all the school fundraisers. I’m sure that trait extends to the bedroom.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sally adds with a sigh. “I mean, Matt might as well be Mother Teresa till we take our clothes off. We started having sex a year ago, and he still doesn’t understand that twenty minutes of jack hammering isn’t going to make me spontaneously orgasm.”

Another round of giggling ensues, but I find myself swallowing, an unexpected image flashing through my brain: it’s Adrian, naked and rippling with lean muscle as one of his hands –

No, no, no. I’m not going there.

We haven’t even kissed. I probably shouldn’t be imagining him naked till we’ve crossed into first base territory.

“Remember that Cedarsville Lacrosse player I went out with last year? Now that was bad,” Molly chimes in before turning to me. “You have no idea how lucky you are, Poppy. Adrian’s one of the genuine ones. He doesn’t put on a face like most guys do.”

I have to fight the urge to laugh because Molly is, unfortunately, not making an ironic joke. She has no idea.

They’ll only ever know Adrian as the shining ideal of generosity and kindness.

They’ll never know him like I do.

And that realization shouldn’t send a territorial twinge through me, but some part of me likes knowing that, while the rest of the world may get his mask, I get him. All his dark and twisty bits.

I give the girls a tight-lipped smile and head toward the bathroom. “I think I’m going to get changed.”

The dress is even more beautiful than I remember, sliding across my skin like oil. The sashes, tied into a bow around my neck, graze the exposed skin of my back whenever I so much as fidget – but also give the impression that I’m a present to be unwrapped.

Adrian’s present, I suppose.

The material clings to me as I step out to face three slack-jawed girls and Molly’s full-length mirror.

“Oh. My. God.”

My heart dips into my stomach.

The girl in the mirror is a version of me that I’ve never met. Her pin-straight hair has transformed into loose, wispy waves, the platinum color accentuated by whatever hair oil the stylist spent several minutes massaging into my scalp. She has sharp cheekbones carved out of thin air and the full red lips of a siren.

This girl does not look like a poor scholarship student, endlessly struggling to keep up with her classmates.

This girl looks like she belongs here.

“Okay, where the hell did you get this dress?” Molly asks, breezing up to me with a sly smile that tells me she’s taking all the credit for my Cinderella-esque transformation.

“It was a gift.”

Her eyes go big. “From Adrian?”

I nod, prompting a series of sighs from the rest of the room.

“Seriously. You’re so lucky,” she says, and for the first time, I wonder if she’s right.