Chapter Text
“You come highly recommended,” He says, but the lazy drawl of his syllables betrays his words. I can’t blame him. The Capitol is a cesspool of nepotism, and I’m one of the worst offenders. The Games are hard to get into, even with grandfathers in politics and gamemaker mothers.
“I see my pedigree proceeds me,” I say, with an ounce of shame I didn’t mean to gleam through, and for the first time all morning, he cracks a smile.
I’ve seen him once or twice before, at parties or maybe on TV. He’s older than me, but younger than my father. Medium build, cold dark eyes, and dark hair that silver strands have begun to thread through. The lines in the corners of his eyes are still intact, which is a rarity these days. My own mother goes to her aesthetician dutifully once every two weeks to keep her face flawless.
“Four is a good district to be assigned for your first year,” he says. My self depreciation must soften him just as his wrinkles soften me. And when we get to the double doors of the observation room he holds the door open for me. “Ladies first.”
I accept this small act of politeness, the first one he’s shown me, with the brightest smile I can muster.
It’s a big room, reminiscent of a lecture hall with multiple rows with large chairs, and an overhanging balcony. Where typically there would be a blackboard, are instead a dozen flickering panels, live streams from the district marked by a number in the left hand corner.
I’m about to ask him something when I’m interrupted by the sound of someone calling my name.
Before I can see who it is, two strong arms wrap around me. The tell-tale scent of sage and roses are the only clue I need.
“Augustus!” He looks about the same as he did before summer. A splatter or freckles across his nose and face, soft brown eyes, and a gentle smile. His skin is darker now though, tanned a golden brown by the summer sun. I eye the swirling gold pattern by his collar bone, partially concealed by the collar of his shirt.
“Is that new?” I ask, and he grins.
“Dad had a fit over it, and said I was bringing down the family name.” He rolls his eyes. I’ve known Gus since I was a girl, since I was old enough to sit in the desk beside his in a decades’ worth of schooling, but I’ll never get used to hearing him refer to President Snow as ‘ Dad ’ – or griping about him for that matter.
“How are your parents?” he asks. Not, how are you , but how are your parents . Even after all these years it causes a twinge of ire. But I know Gus doesn’t mean any harm since he’s been plagued with the same question his entire life without any opportunity to know otherwise.
“They’re fine,” and then realizing something, I add: “Haven’t you seen my mom since you’re interning with the gamemakers this year?”
“I haven’t, she’s been stuck in a meeting all day.” Our eyes both turn to the balcony overhead, tracing the figures that scamper along the railing. Sure enough, my mother’s blonde head is nowhere to be seen.
“Shouldn’t you be up there with them?” I ask, and he grins.
“Just taking a break after a morning of hard work,” the sarcasm drips from every word. In their defense; I can’t imagine ordering the President’s son to go get coffee. “How are things on your end?”
I shrug, sparing a fleeting glance to where my partner is sitting at the far end of the room, watching the screen intently. He’s definitely not enamored with my parents like most of the Capitol. But then again, neither am I.
“He seems nice enough.” There’s a lingering moment of silence and I’m reminded that my, rightfully miffed, partner is probably waiting for me to stop schmoozing with the President's son. “I should get back.”
He catches my arm before I can turn away, just firm enough that I can feel the warmth of his hand radiate through my blazer. “A group of us have a table reserved at Persephone’s to watch a recap of the reaping,” he says, meaning the group of people we’ve gone to school with for years, the ones any normal person would consider friends. “You should join us.” His eyes glimmer under the lights. It feels like there’s a monster clawing up my throat, and when it realizes the endeavor is futile, it constricts around my stomach like the red ball my mother squeezes when she’s under too much stress.
“Sounds like fun.” Maybe if I was a different kind of girl it would be fun. To sit around a table with people I could freely air my thoughts with, where the heaviest grievance that graced my tongue was frustration that I cracked my watch a week ago and didn’t have enough time to repair it.
I’m about to finish the thought with a halfhearted commitment, but Gus’s smile is so bright I end up leaving the thought as it is—and his smile blossoms into a grin.
“Great! I’ll come pick you up, you still live in the penthouse at The Hestia, right?”
Just give him what he wants. It’s easier for everyone this way.
I smile and nod.
I don’t miss my partner’s keen eyes on me when I take my seat beside him. Nothing’s happening on the screens, it’s that lackluster lull where the district squares are still filling in, so I’m the most interesting thing right now. I try not to act unnerved, stealing a glance from the corner of my eye, his eyes are cold and calculating, but I know he isn’t entirely hardened because there’s a cup of coffee next to the place card with my name.
“What’s it like being the president’s future daughter-in-law?” He finally asks.
I sputter at the implication. Gus could have anyone he wants. Pedigree aside—he’s a handsome guy, affable, and mild mannered. He wouldn’t have any reason to pick me.
“I wouldn't know.” It comes out louder than I intended and I feel a few people turn to look at me. I The familiar heat of embarrassment creeps up my neck.
But my partner laughs, and that seems worth the humiliation. “I’m only teasing,” he promises, and then after a long moment he adds. “I’m sorry about your Grandfather.”
I’ll never get used to the condolence, even now after seven months, the words still make my eyes uncomfortably hot.
Visions of wrinkled hands, brown coats, eyes like the ocean, and cold winter nights lapse like a kaleidoscope.I pinch my eyes close, willing the images away, once you open the door there is no way back.
I can’t lose it here, not on my first day, not with Mom twenty feet away.
“How long have you been working with district four?” It’s not a proper reciprocation, but it’s all I can manage.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting this question. He crosses his arms, air blowing out of his mouth. “I’ve been at district four for…three years now, but a designer for the games for eight.”
Eight years of doing this is hard to imagine, though not surprising. Most designers who are lucky enough to get into the games make a lifetime career of it. It’s a year round commitment even if a tribute doesn’t win in a year. There’s always Victor’s to dress for award ceremonies or parties, or ‘where are they now’ specials they need to be prepped for.
“Do you think you’ll stay here?” I ask.
He scoffs, “not much of anywhere else to go.”
I know he doesn’t just mean that there aren’t better districts to be in. Being a designer for the Hunger Games isn’t like being a Gamemaker or a Handler, both of those lead to other things—careers in politics as an advisor, consulting for the Games, or teaching at the University. There’s always somewhere higher to reach. Something to aspire to.
Being a designer doesn’t lead anywhere. Most of the designers here have even stopped creating clothes for the citizens of the Capitol, exclusively focusing all their attention on their day-to-day duties. The few that prepare Victor’s on a winning year are given a small shop on main street, but even that is superficial at best. Most designers just sell lesser quality replications that avid fans snap up for nostalgia.
“What about you love child, how long do you plan on sticking around?” I flinch at the nickname. I haven’t heard it in years, not since my parents' love story fizzled out and the tabloids stopped running updates.
I wish everyone on earth forgot I existed.
“There’s nowhere else to go,” I say.
There’s a question on his mouth, but it’s cut off by a flicker on the screen.
“It’s starting.” Despite his callousness to me, my partner is entirely focused on the task at hand. To my suprise, we don’t start in numerical order. We start with District Twelve, a man in a gray suit stands on the stage and calls names until a matching pair of teenagers with dark hair and cold gray eyes stare blankly into the camera. They look so alike I wonder for a moment if they’re family, cousins separated by a sister’s marriage into another family. Even more surprising is the man in the background, a glint of silver pressed to his lips.
I didn’t think you were allowed to drink in public places like that, I think, and then I realize Capitol etiquette does not equate to District Law.
District Eleven shows more variation. The girl is tall with pale skin the color of milk, only blemished by a splatter of freckles and long red hair pulled into two braids. The boy is tall with skin the color of tea. The only thing they share in common is the empty look in their eyes.
In District Three the girl that’s called starts crying in the crowd itself, and the boy who had been holding strong until then breaks down with her.
One by one we cross the Districts; eight, six, nine, ten—on and on. The names with syllables that haunt the air after they’re called out. The hollow expressions.
This isn’t the version Capitol citizens will see. This is the live version, not the edited one that will air in three hours. No doubt a masterpiece of editing, video cut to keep the viewer engaged, and the audio isolated to keep them focused. The crying mother sobbing into the ground would be a distraction, after all.
This is even more fucked up than I thought.
The first volunteers come from District Two. They remind me of the people I see in the gym. Their bodies are made of pure muscle, and they have a dangerous aura, like they’ll fly off into a fit of rage at any moment—probably because they haven’t had bread since childhood.
District One follows the trend. A girl and boy, long shiny hair and crystal clear eyes. Artemis and Apollo descended from the heavens to grace us mortals with a glance.
District Five has no volunteers. I hardly notice what happens because my hands have started to shake. There’s only one district left. The hall is mostly empty at this point, the other designers have left after their tributes were identified, and now it is only my partner and I and a handful of the gamemakers on the balcony overhead.
“You’ll take the boy,” he says. My eyebrows pull together and he shrugs. “It’s tradition, opposite gender partnerships are charming or something.” But there’s something in his expression that doesn’t quite convince me. Before I can argue, the Handler for District Four takes the stage. I’m surprised to see a girl I know take the stage. Her cornsilk blonde hair is now blue, with a frosty white tip at the end, a foaming wave. Her ears are studded with pearls, and her eyes have the golden sparkle of an augmentation.
“Leto?” I whisper to myself, but not quietly enough to go undetected.
“You know her?” asks my partner.
“We went to school together,” and then after a minute of racking my brain, completely dumbfounded, I add: “She likes the ocean.”
Did Leto really pull every connection her parents had just so she could go fuck off to the ocean once a year? Here I am, this close to tearing out my hair thinking about my future and the long term implications my actions have—and Leto’s just gone all in on a whim!
“Abigail Nile!”
A shaky girl emerges from the crowd, no older than thirteen with the front pieces of her hair held back in a gold clip that looks like a seashell. Her anxiety is all for not, because another girl volunteers in her place. On size alone she’s larger, the shape of a fully grown woman. She’s sturdy as she approaches the stage, chestnut brown hair is held in a complicated knot by the nape of her neck.
And like the frail girl retreating back to the crowd, I let out a breath of relief as well.
“And what’s your name?”
“Magnolia Arno.”
Leto doesn’t linger, her hand twirling in an empty fish bowl swimming with scraps, her blue fingernails painted with stars and bright yellow fish pinching a single scrap. I hold my breath.
This is it, this will be the boy.
“Finnick Odair!”
The first thing I see is a head of blond hair. The sunlight refracts from the curls in his hair in square stripes. We only see the back of him as he makes his way to the stage. A blue collar short sleeve shirt tucked into a pair of khaki pants. I’m annoyed at the angle, we’ve only got a few hours at best until they’re here, surely all the cameras they’ve got at the other angles haven’t broken in the last ten seconds. It only takes his first step on stage, a glimpse of his side profile, to see why the operators have gone immobile.
Large blue eyes, not quite green but not quite blue, the color of the ocean. Lips as plump and red as a fresh rose. Facial symmetry not even my mother’s doctor could replicate.
He’s the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.
I avert my eyes, feeling my face flush. My reaction is not an anomaly, because beside me my partner also stiffens, coughing awkwardly into his fist. I give myself exactly five seconds to take a deep breath before turning my attention back to the screen. Now that the initial awe has waned, I realize that he’s young. Just as young as the girl who scampered away. But he doesn’t share any of her unease, completely calm as he takes the stage standing beside Leto.
It seems even she is stunned by his beauty as well, because for a long moment she just stands on stage, the microphone clasped in both her hands, and her jaw on the floor The embarrassment of the faux paux lingers after she’s recovered, evidenced by a faint pink flush on her neck.
She always was a proud girl.
“A-are there any v-volunteers?”
One second passes by. Then seven. With each one the peace in his expression breaks, until at last he’s frantic. Eyes darting through the crowd, until a peacekeeper escorts him into their District's justice building. He makes a panicked noise—“Mags!”—and a woman with long silver hair comes into view.
She’s old. Older than our president. Older than my Grandfather. Older than anyone I’ve ever met is allowed to look. Wrinkles litter her face along with dark spots, like freckles if they turned hard, and a limp, shapeless mouth. When she speaks again I realize some of her teeth are missing, the few she has left stained with caramel brown spots.
“The— be— a mis—!” I only catch part of what she says, as does the peacekeeper, and like him, I lean closer to make sense of the words.
That’s when the feed cuts to black.
My partner whistles low. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us.” I barely register the feeling of his hand patting my shoulder. “Take it easy tonight, from tomorrow you won’t be able to take any breaks.” There’s a scraping sound as he rises and the sound of a door slamming shut.
I stay fixed in place.
I recall the sentence again, turning over each syllable like a rock in my hand. Feeling the cracks and faded edges with my thumb, memorizing the shape in my mind.
I get a fragment to complete a word as a reward.
“The— been a mis—!”
I think about her mouth, trying to replicate the motion hers made with my own. When that doesn’t work I try using context clues.
“Been a” what?
Misaligned. Misjudge. Miserable (which I don’t doubt it is). Misclaim. Mishandle. Misunderstanding—
My eyes go wide. A hand claps over my mouth.
Oh no.
“There’s been a Mistake!”
***
Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair.
The iron door of our penthouse apartment closes with a grating creak. I’m too tired to wince at the sound, instead I lean into it, relishing the sound of metal grating against metal, encouraging it even by pressing down a bit harder. I drop my bag to the floor, the crack of something breaking echoes in my ear.
What am I going to do with him?
There’s the shuffle of feet against the floor. He shows up first. Dark hair and light green eyes. His panic is the only thing that snaps me out of my trance.
“I’m fine Percy,” I whisper, leaning down to grab my bag before he can. It doesn’t stop him from taking it out of my grasp, turning my hands over.
I was right, something did break, and the ink smeared all over my hands is proof.
And that was my favorite pen too , I think with a sigh.
Percy looks at me with a stern gaze, questioning me with his eyes. I don’t know where to start, I’m not sure if he caught the broadcast, but before I can think of what to say I’m interrupted by a second pair of footsteps.
“Oh dear, I thought you might have had a rough day.” My Father is as tender hearted as always, paying no mind to my ink-stained hands as he pulls me into a hug.
“Have you eaten?” he asks. I shake my head. “Percy, will you get her cleaned up? I’ll see if Marie can whip something up, something warm and comforting.” He cups my face with one of his hands, giving an affectionate squeeze until he rouses a small smile.
I don’t notice he’s still in his robe, grandfather’s pipe poking out from the front pocket, until he’s walking away. That’s right, the University is on break right now, even Faculty has been given the day off for the games.
They have seen the edited stream of the Reaping then.
Percy keeps his hand wrapped around my wrist as he leads me to the sofa in the living room. I don’t know what gives me more anxiety, the feel of Percy’s fingertips brushing against the palm of my hand when my Father is twenty feet away, or the fact that this a pure white couch and my hands are full of wet, dark, highly stainable, ink.
I decide to be anxious about all of it.
Dad comes back with a tray of soup, toasted bread, and a clear fizzy drink in a crystal glass, setting it on the coffee table when he sees Percy is still cleaning my hands.
He sits down in the armchair to the right. His glasses are slightly crooked and his dark brown hair is sticking up at the back. It’s strange to see him so unkempt this time of year, he’s normally so polished for his handler appearances, but I won’t say it’s not endearing in its own way.
He’s nursing a cup of coffee, just how he likes it, heavy in cream and sugar. “Are you confused about what happened?”
I shake my head. “Augustus explained it to me.” I heard him take the stairs two at a time. The creak of the chair that my partner once sat in, and a rush of words he’d have to repeat twice for me to fully understand. “They probably had a plan for someone to volunteer, but they pulled out at the last minute.”
My Father looks pensive, a hand clapped over his mouth. I wonder if he’s going to talk about the boy’s striking looks, or how young he is—the youngest person from this reaping. The peaceful look on his face that quickly descended into hysteria once he realized no one was saving him. The betrayal he must feel, and the hopelessness of his situation. The fact that all anyone cares about is his face, a vision from the heavens, like an angel had grazed against the earth for a flickering moment.
“Just do a good job sweetie, they just want a good show,” says my Father, and I realize no one in the Capitol cares about this boy at all, no one but me.
“I know Dad,” I mumble.
He smiles, seemingly satisfied by my half-hearted answer. But Percy keeps his eyes on me, and when my Father takes a sip of his coffee, Percy, almost imperceptibly, tilts his head so his lips graze against my wrist.
***
Ripples flutter across the red liquid, it reaches the crystal wall, and reverbates back to the center—on and on and on. An ouroboros of motion.
“Are you having a good time?”
The sound of his voice snaps me out of my trance. I look up to see Augustus’ clear blue eyes looking at me, his cheeks tinged pink from the alcohol. I wasn’t going to come out tonight, I had half a mind to stay home, but Percy thought it would be a good idea. He said it would be helpful to get an idea of what other people thought of the reaping, but I think he just didn’t want me holed up in the study, spinning my wheels, trying to come up with the perfect sketch all night.
“The wine’s strong.” It’s not a complete lie, two sips in and I feel myself encompassed in the fuzzy warm glow of inebriation.
Gus groans, “I know, this is the last time I let Vera pick the wine.”
Vera Rhode, across from us on the circular table with a stylish black bob, flanked with a boy on either side, tosses her head back in a laugh. I’m starting to think Gus only invited me because he didn’t want anyone to upstage the real jewel of this outing.
She rests a well manicured hand on the clean white tablecloth, a smile tugging on her lips. “Everyone knows Castel goes best with the lemon chicken.” Gus resigns himself to her whims with a laugh, and I hope this is the end of the interaction.
Unfortunately her sharp eyes have fallen to me.
“That’s you boy isn’t it?” She points her fork to the screen, a gaffe for anyone but charming on her, sure enough at the end of her fork is Finnick Odair. For the recap they’ve cut the panic that surmounts at the end. Instead he’s calm and collected throughout, a false sense of peace and acceptance smoothing his face. No doubt it’s some editors' greatest work.
It’s almost nice when you look at it from this angle, I think.
“I didn’t think someone from the districts could be that beautiful,” she says between bites of chicken.
And just like that it’s ruined.
I wait for the usual chatter of ‘District Savagery’ and brutality witnessed on the glimpse of a trip to the outer districts. The same four stories we’ve heard some variation of for decades. But Vera’s eyes haven’t strayed from their original target.
“You’re from the districts aren’t you?”
She knows I’m not. It’s literally impossible now. But for someone like Vera Rhode whose family have been Capiolites for so many generations that they’ve lost count, I might as well be.
“My Grandfather was from the Districts, yes.”
“How did something like that happen?”
I think a year ago I would have been angry at this pointless prodding. By the way everyone at the table seems to be complacent with this beautiful girl's blatant cruelty. By this girl herself, who’s never been on the other side of a violent act in her life, and could do with a tight slap to the face. By the implication that she’s somehow better than me because her ancestor had the stupid luck to be born at the right place at the right time.
But I’m just so tired, and there’s better things to waste braincells on than Vera Rhoda.
Like keeping that boy alive for example.
I take a sip of my wine, just like my mother taught me, fully aware that I give off the impression of someone who couldn’t care less, and for once it’s half the truth and not a power play like originally intended.
“After the war a handful of families were extended citizenship to the Capitol.” That’s as much as I want to say about the matter.
“That’s it?” she asks.
I think about the paperwork that must be involved. The number of officials who would need to know you by your first name alone. The money that would need to exchange hands ten times over. The library at the university that still holds my Grandfather’s name, even with his passing. The way the wrinkles on his forehead plagued him his entire life, a reminder of what he’d left behind.
“That’s it,” I confirm.
I can see her mouth shaping to form another question, but luck chooses me for once.
“I need some air,” Augusts announces, placing his napkin on the table along with some bills. He glances at me and I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling.
“I’ll join you.”
‘Some air’ turns out to be a walk down the street to a cocktail bar. We sit under low lights, a re-run of the recap flickering in front of us on a large screen.
“I’m sorry about Vera,” says Gus suddenly.
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal.” I pull my sketchbook out from my bag, absentmindedly tracing the half-finished design I started this afternoon.
“It is,” He insists, his lip tucked in between his teeth. “She shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
Well, if he makes a face like that I might actually believe him.
“We paid our way into the Capitol Gus, no amount of politeness is going to change that.” It’s only in hindsight that I can appreciate Vera’s bursque belittlement. I’d much rather have outright hostility than someone who hides their true feelings behind a smile and honey drenched words.
I see him flinch from the corner of my eye. My pen traces the page finishing off a series of pleats.
“That doesn’t make any difference, you’re our—you’re my friend.” He swallows hard, and for the first time I find a reason to look away from my sketchbook.
I smile.
“Thanks Gus, you’re my friend too.” and then after a minute I add. “Even though the thought of being seen with you in public makes me want to have a panic attack.”
His mouth splits into a grin. “What, because of my Dad?”
“Because of your Dad, your good looks, superior intellect—you can take your pick.” He laughs so loud other people turn to look at him. He looks like he’s having so much fun I can’t help but join in, and for a moment I just feel like a girl, having drinks with a friend at a bar.
“Is that what you’re making for the Tribute from Four tomorrow?”
And just like that it’s over, I think.
I nod, nudging my sketchbook closer. I should have tried to tie in my design to what I knew about District Four: the sea that sprawled out into the distance as far as the eye could see, nets and fishing hooks and all manner of rope used in their trade, but all I could think when I saw him was a tunic. Silk draped over his shoulder that flows down to his knees. Pearls dangling from his ears and gold blessed on his head. A god who managed to crawl out of the ocean, just to grace us with a glimpse.
I can’t imagine my partner will ever buy into it.
Augustus studies the sketch with keen interest. He traces the lines along the hand with his thumb.
“You should add a trident,” he finally says. “I think it would really tie the outfit in together.”
And it’s not a bad idea, so I use it.
***
“What do you think?” I ask.
The lamplight in the study casts a shadow across one side of his face. After seven long moments Percy pulls himself away from my sketchbook, and looks at me.
“ I like the trident,” he signs, his mouth curled in a lopsided smile. It looks like I was right about the value of Augustus' suggestion.
“What about the rest of it?”
He points to the Jewelry. “ I think the pearls are good, you should give him some rings.” and then he points to the waist on the sketch. “You should use a gold rope here, if he knows any sailors knots you can ask him to do one.”
“And if he doesn’t know any?”
Percy’s grins again. “Simple knots work too.”
I roll my eyes at his hushed laugh. When we communicate like this, I almost forget I’ve never heard the sound of Percy’s voice. Sometimes I feel like I have, after a pleasant dream, or when I’m reminiscing over a nice memory.
And then I remember that they cut out his tongue before he was old enough to understand what he did wrong.
“Do you think the senior designer will go for it?” The design is now part way decent, with references to District Four that go beyond ‘ocean’ and ‘fishing’.
Percy studies the sketch, and smirks. “He’d be stupid not to.”
***
He studies the sketch with great intensity. His salt and pepper eyebrows are threaded together, and the corners of his mouth are downturned.
He’s going to tell me it’s crap.
“I like it,” he says finally. His gaze moved from the page to me. “I guess you did earn your spot here, huh?”
I give an ugly snort at the implication.
“They say amateurs get lucky a few times right?” My quip doesn’t earn a smile, but that’s minor to his approval of my design. He’s already scrawling down notes on the page. Adjustments so that it keeps structure even if someone’s sitting, or a change in stitching so that it settles right.
“I’ll send it over to the manufacturing team, it’s simple enough that there shouldn’t be too many issues, but I’ll keep you looped in.” He glances up, then does a double take like he’s seen something interesting, his eyebrows competing with his forehead. “I think the boy is ready.” I follow his line of sight to see the three girls on my prep team giggling to themselves as they make their way over to me.
“He’s all ready now!” the shortest squeals.
“He’s even prettier in person,” another whispers, you’d think we were conspiring something vicious with the way she leans in and cups a hand over the side of her mouth.
“Goodness, I’ve never seen a boy with lips like that!” The third shrieks. And then all three of them turn down the hall giggling before I can review the list of treatments.
“Don’t worry about it too much, boys hardly need any prepping.” Ah yes, the double standards in beauty between the sexes. “Might not say the same for his mental state, though.” That’s concerning, though even if he’s lost the will to fight I’ll have to find it for him.
“I’ll go check to make sure they did their jobs in between fawning all over him,” I mumble. It looks like my partner is rubbing off on me.
I stand in front of the door, my index finger and thumb around the doorknob. I knew this was coming, that I’d have to meet him eventually. Will he be cold or withdrawn? Boyish and charming? Kind and self-depreciating? Will he trust me from the start or will he be wary?
No matter what he’s like, I’ll be on his side.
I take a deep breath, twist the doorknob, and push.
“Finnick?” I ask.
Like the footage of the reaping, I see the back of his head first, the swirls of golden curls shining under the fluorescent lights. He turns, ever so slowly, somehow even more beautiful than he was on television, softer, much younger too. Eyes the color of the ocean.
He deserves so much more than what I can give him.
He nods, and I try to give him my best smile.
“I’m Lavinia, I’ll be your stylist.”