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Ainsley stroked her bottom lip. “Wait, one sec.” She opened her desk drawer and dug through her jumbled pile of unorganized makeup samples and brushes—which Brooke would have a coronary over if she ever saw—and fished out the peachy liquid lipstick she’d won over me months before. “This will go perfectly.”

Beaming, I applied it, then shoved it in my shorts pocket.

“Hey,” Ainsley protested. “Give it back!”

“I need it to reapply later! You’ll get it back, calm down.”

“I’d better,” she grumbled.

We filmed a clip as quickly as we could, then headed downstairs, where Brougham was sitting between my parents, his back unnaturally straight and his hands sandwiched between his knees. Mom and Dad were talking to each other in hushed whispers over his head, and both of them wore a distinct “I’m politely irritated by you but I’m going to be the bigger person here” expression.

Brougham looked relieved to see me, and he jumped up. “We should probably head to mine,” he said. “Heaps to set up.”

Dad’s relief was just as palpable. “Well, that’s my cue to go then, I guess,” he said, stretching. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the earrings.” I touched my earlobes.

“Good luck tonight,” Mom said, pulling me in for a hug.

“Wait, what’s tonight?” Dad cut in. He knew bits of background, of course. Like, he knew I’d gotten suspended. Heknew about the locker. He knew Brooke and I had had an argument. But beyond that, not so much. Mom knew everything, though. I’d told her my plan, and she’d listened. She’d even offered some suggestions of her own.

“Brougham and I are cooking dinner for Brooke.”

Dad gave a vague, pleasant nod. “Oh. That’s nice,” he said.

As Brougham and I left the house, I made out Mom’s chiding voice. “You could stand to act more interested in her life, you know. Ask somequestions…”

TWENTY-ONE

“Okay, ingredients can go in the kitchen,” Brougham directed as we lugged the shopping bags in from his car at his house. “Do we start on these first, or the decorations, you reckon?”

“Let’s get as much prepared as we can, so we can throw it in the oven on time later,” I suggested, dropping my loaded canvas bag on his pristine, glossy countertop.

Brougham hoisted himself up to sit on the counter and took out his phone. I gaped at him.

“Don’t sit on the counter! That’s so unhygienic.”

“What? I’m wearing clean pants.”

“Yeah and you’ve been sitting inall sorts of places.”

He rolled his eyes and hopped down to sit on a bar stool, like he should’ve done in the first place. I glared at him then grabbed a cloth from the sink to give the whole countertop a wipe down. God only knew how many butts had been on this thing.

“Okay, hit me with the sexy menu,” Brougham said, sliding his reading glasses on. “I’ll type it up and laminate it while you get ready.”

“Don’t title it ‘the sexy menu,’ though, okay?” I said. “Just ‘menu’ is fine.”

Brougham pulled a face that indicated he disagreed, but didn’t argue.

“We’re starting with garlic-butter oysters in puff pastry, followed by roast figs, potatoes, and asparagus in chili and lime sauce, and ending with chocolate-covered strawberries.”

Brougham noted it all down, then tipped his head to one side. “Are they pescatarian?”

“Nope. I was just on a bit of a budget after I bought the projector.”

“Cool, just checking. Hold on. DAD?”

One of the main reasons we decided to do this at Brougham’s house—outside of the general ambiance of his backyard, that is—was that Brougham’s mom was over in Vegas this weekend at a friend’s bachelorette party. I’d been assured multiple times that Mr. Brougham wasn’t so bad when he wasn’t arguing with his wife. This was my time to find out, I guessed.