“Her name is Josie,” Tristan replied with a bit of hostility.

“Okay, Josie,” she replied, holding up her hands in apologetic surrender. “How’d that even happen? She never talks to anyone.”

Tristan took a deep drag and blew it out above their heads.

“I knew her when we were kids. She’s an old friend.”

“Well, she seems like an interesting girl. I hope that works out for you. Lord knows it’s hard to find anyone decent in this city. I seem to only attract guys who are more muscle than brain or still live with their parents.”

“They can’t all be bad,” Tristan said. “If there hadn’t been women we’d still be squatting in a cave eating raw meat. We made civilization in order to impress our girlfriends.”

Erin laughed and smiled at him.

“That’s clever,” she said.

“It’s not mine. Orson Welles said it. But it’s true.”

“Well, the last man who impressed me was my daddy.”

Erin patted his forearm and stepped back inside.

Monica stood before Josie, her arms crossed, eyes scanning in inspection mode. Josie suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at the tiny woman’s appraisal because she didn’t want to offend her. Not this time. She watched Monica’s eyes rake over her body and immediately wondered what the woman saw there. Pain and pleasure weren’t etched into her skin like Tristan. Josie wore her scars inside.

Normal girls had friends to call for backup, friends who would dress you and tease your hair and tell you what gloss to wear. Josie didn’t have any such friends, so she figured Monica would do. Once summoned, Monica Templeton eagerly came running. Josie didn’t know if it was customary for your social worker to keep in touch long after her legal obligations had ended, but there Monica was, an immovable pillar. She never blamed Monica for what had happened to her in those homes, everyone had played their roles so convincingly. She simply enjoyed toying with the woman’s sensibilities. She loved being in control of something for once. Punishing Monica by withholding her forgiveness was the one thing Josie had.

The fact that Josie and Tristan already knew each other did nothing to appease her anxiety. Their lopsided relationship was emotionally difficult to navigate. Though Josie couldn’t recall their beginnings, she felt in her bones that what they had was concrete. She had fought with herself all day, almost canceling on him two hours ago, but she couldn’t bring herself to deny this newly developing affair. She also couldn’t wait to take whatever physical pleasure he would give her.

Josie thought about getting high one last time to calm her nerves, bargaining that she’d be more likable, more at ease. They’d both have a better time. But she didn’t want to disappoint Tristan.

She was a nervous mess. What did Tristan expect from her? Even with her nerves, Josie suddenly found herself wanting to spend time with him outside of the protective walls of her apartment. She wanted to be seen with him and claim him for her own. She took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and put her head in her hands. Monica knelt before her and pulled Josie’s hands away from her face. She held them up and smiled.

“No charcoal, no paint,” Monica pointed out.

Josie nodded.

“I worked all afternoon on them.”

Monica looked into Josie’s eyes next.

“You’re not high either.”

“Nope. I do feel like I’m going to puke, though,” Josie said.

“Listen to me. No matter where you go tonight, it will still be you and Tristan. Just like when you’re here.”

“No, we’ll be out there, with people watching us. What if I embarrass him?”

A date meant restaurants and crowds. A date meant being vulnerable and honest and learning to rediscover her humanity. Until now, Josie had been free to be a societal vagabond, answering to nothing and no one. She never felt like she could operate within the realm of the law-abiding, white bread squares of today’s population. She feared that no matter what clothes she wore, they would see straight through to what she really was—trash.

“I have a feeling you could never embarrass him, Josie. You certainly don’t see yourself clearly.”

“What the hell am I’m doing?” Josie cried.

“Josie, calm down. Tons of girls go on dates every day. I’ve probably been on hundreds of dates. Look at me. It eventually led to Mr. Right. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not tons of girls,” Josie said, taking a deep breath. “I’m Josie Banks, fuckup extraordinaire.”

Monica cautiously placed a hand on each shoulder and looked into her brown eyes. She stilled her gum chomping and gave Josie a smile.

“You are not a fuckup. You are fierce and intelligent and one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.” She pulled Josie up and spun her toward the mirror. “You are stunningly beautiful and mysterious and every other thing that men love.”

The two women’s gazes met through the mirror’s reflection, each wishing to understand the other more clearly. Josie longed to see the things Monica saw. She wanted to believe those praising words and attach them to herself like tags.

“Something’s missing. Oh! I know!” Monica screeched, startling Josie.

Monica dug into her oversize bag and pulled out what looked like a tackle box. Josie watched with amazement as she rifled through the thing, picking through each compartment in search of a specific item.

“There,” Monica said as she stepped to Josie and slid a silk flower barrette into her hair.

Monica stepped to the side and turned Josie toward the mirror. The girl’s eyes landed on her reflection, and for a moment she couldn’t identify the stranger staring back. This time, she could see a beautiful and happy girl. Having no patience for daydreams, she pressed her fingers to the glass to verify that it was real. There was a new light to her eyes, an unfamiliar lift to the corners of her mouth. She could almost pass for human.

A knock jolted her out of her scrutinizing. Her heart drummed against her chest and she felt pulled across the room toward the door. She could already feel his energy, his fantastical command over her body. The clicking of her heels against the hardwood floor counted off her steps toward Tristan. After sliding all the locks free, she threw open the door.

Tristan stood with his hands in his pockets, nervously jingling his keys. Her eyes started at his feet, noticing his shoes, then his jeans, then losing all patience and skipping directly to his face. He’d shaved his face clean and now the edge of his jaw looked so sharp and masculine, like it had been chiseled free from one solid piece of stone. His eyes shone like emeralds.

“Wow, you look amazing, Stems.”

Her smile turned up in reaction to the nickname. Tristan’s eyes took in every inch of her form, from the black top clinging to her hips down to her red high heels. Her brown eyes, lined in thick black lashes, seemed to shine. The red flower in her hair lent sweetness to her otherwise sultry, temptress appearance.

Monica came barreling past, an enormous bag slung over her shoulder, stopping between the two of them.

“Here,” Monica said, handing her a small red clutch. “I put all your essentials in there, so you shouldn’t need anything else. I’ll get my stuff back from you sometime next week.”

Monica spun to face Tristan, completely shocked by his appearance. He was not what she had expected. His presence was grand and so masculine while his smile made him appear beautiful and almost childlike.

“I’m Tristan,” he said.

“You certainly are,” she answered, slipping her hand into his. “I’m Monica. You guys have fun tonight.”

Monica trotted down the steps and out of sight, leaving the two alone in her doorway.

“Ready?” Tristan asked.

She nodded and locked the door, taking his hand as they descended the single flight of stairs. Tristan led her to his classic car parked at the curb. He opened the door and let her slide in before making his way around to the driver’s seat.