Page 47 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

Josie

T hanks a lot, missy.” Grant bursts into my room, stalking to where I sit by the windows. He stops at the foot of the easel and props his hands on his hips.

“Thanks for what?”

“For standing me up. Breakfast. Nine a.m. Remember?”

I check the digital clock on the bedside table. 10:07. I cringe. “Oops.”

“Oops?” His eyes widen. “That’s it? ‘Oops’?”

“Sorry?”

“Are you asking if that is the right response?”

I cringe. “No?”

He groans. “Never mind. We have an extra day to party, thanks to your lumberjack, and we're not wasting it.” He crosses to my open suitcase and starts rummaging through it, surely looking for the perfect outfit for my first night on the town.

“It’s still morning.”

“Exactly.” He tosses a wrinkled tank over his shoulder. “Is that what you’ve been doing all morning?”

“You’ve known me long enough to know that I bury myself in a painting when I’m upset.”

He stops mid-toss. “Josie, sweetie. You paint because you’re breathing. You don’t need a reason.”

Fair.

He gets back to tearing through my suitcase. T-shirts, jeans, a hoodie—toss, toss, toss.

“There’s plenty to do and see in Vegas, and we’re doing and seeing it all.”

“Grant . . .” I cross my arms in a show of defiance. I’d much rather spend my free night with my paints and close to my phone where I can answer if Hayes calls or texts with updates.

“Is this all you brought?”

“I packed light, and I knew my personal stylist would have my back.”

He points a perfectly manicured finger at me. “You know it. Honestly, I’d hoped clothes would be forgotten with all that muscle within reach.” He convulses with a full-body shiver. “Delicious. ”

“Grant!” I scold but a laugh cuts it off. Classic Grant. Dramatic, inappropriate, and exactly what I need—even if I won’t admit it. His ego’s living large enough already.

Unapologetic, he claps his hands together. “I know what we can do until the nightlife heats up. My favorite activity.”

“I’m not sleeping with you. Gross.”

“Eww.”

“Right?” I flash a cheeky grin.

“Today is the perfect time to go shopping for all the glorious cocktail and formal dresses you’ll need for the show events.”

With a sigh, I dip the brush into a swirl of green paint. “Can it wait until I finish this?”

“How long will that take?” He flops dramatically onto the bed, leaving the mess he made of my suitcase as is.

I point the brush handle toward the chaos. “However long it will take you to put all that back the way you found it.”

He glares at me as if I told him a strand of his hair was out of place. “Excuse me?”

“You made the mess. You clean it up.”

“Who are you?”

I lift a shoulder. Guess Hayes’ obsession with order and neatness was contagious. “Still Josie.”

“No, no, no. I think you left my best friend in the desert somewhere.” A coy grin tips up the corner of his lips.

He’s right. I did lose a piece of me along the way. The piece that held me back. My back straightens, proud of all I’ve accomplished in such a short time. “Yep. Before you is a new and improved version. Josie 2.0.”

“That’s cool.” He rises off the mattress to press a kiss to my forehead. “But I don’t care what version shows up. You’ll always be my favorite girl.”

◆◆◆

When Grant grows tired of waiting, I clean up my mess and head into the bathroom to get ready. I hope I brought something that will make me appear less—as he put it—fresh out of the morgue. I’d ignore him and go bare faced if he wasn’t right . . . again.

I’m pale as a dead sheep (are there morgues for farm animals?), and my red, swollen eyes from crying myself to sleep aren’t helping me look any more alive, much less Vegas ready. Not that I want anything to do with going out and pretending my heart isn’t missing

With mascara and blush in hand, I go to tap my phone’s music app, pausing when I find a missed text from Hayes.

Knees trembling, I lower to the edge of the tub to read the short message.

Hayes: Thank you for the note. I miss you, too.

There’s a photo of the sunset, spanning over the ocean, and my heart starts beating again. Touched that he sent it, my fingers won’t type as fast as my brain spits out questions.

Me: Hi! Where are you? How's Ava? How was the ocean? How are you?

It isn’t until the three little dots don’t appear, even after a few minutes of begging, that I realize he’s not with me in this moment. Disappointment ripples through me, and I slump to the cold tile floor.

I missed my opportunity to talk to him. He’s probably on a plane, heading home where he wants—needs—to be, but taking him further away from me. I’m happy for him and Ava, but it doesn’t make the pain any more tolerable.

When Grant taps on the door, surely responding to the sniffles my sudden tears brought on, I stand to face myself in the mirror.

“You’re fine.”

“What’s that?” Grant calls. “Need some help?”

“I’m fine,” I cover, and with a deep breath, I try not to make a liar out of me.

I’m more than fine . I have the love of an amazing man and my brother, my art, and my blooming career. I found a new freedom from staring down my fears, and I have my best friend by my side in one of the most exciting places in the country.

What more could a girl want?

◆◆ ◆

The first boutique Grant drags me into feels more like a private gallery than a clothing store. Everything glitters. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling like frozen fireworks, and the racks are scattered out and sparse. No price tags, just silk, sequins, and a smug hush.

A woman in head-to-toe black approaches, her hair slicked back into a high bun. It must have taken both precision and pain to make every strand that smooth, that perfectly positioned. She eyes me, chin tilted up, surely assessing if I belong here or should be shooed back outside with a broom.

Grant gives her a quick once-over and snaps his fingers. “We need something that screams I just survived heartbreak, but I’m hotter than ever, but also whispers if you get too close, I’ll ruin you. ”

The woman doesn’t blink. “Right this way.”

“Was that English?”

“She got it. Watch.”

We’re led into a back dressing area with burgundy velvet benches, a mirrored runway, and gold racks lined with designer gowns that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

“Grant,” I murmur, “this place is . . . ridiculous.”

“If you want collectors to take you seriously, you have to play the part. This is Vegas. You’re not buying a dress, you’re buying respect. ”

A sales assistant appears, silent and efficient, hanging dresses on the rack for us to inspect. She hands me a flute of champagne without asking if I want it. But knowing what I’m about to endure, I want it and maybe three more.

The first dress is a hard no. Metallic jade and covered in dangling feathers. The second is better—black silk, sleek and minimal—but I can’t even zip it past my ribs.

“You need to breathe in,” Grant instructs from his throne-like seat beside the mirror. “Think corset energy. ”

“I’m trying not to pass out.”

“Fashion isn’t comfortable, honey. That’s how you know it’s working.”

Four dresses later, we’re both frustrated. He crosses his legs and taps a painted nail against his knee. “What are we trying to say at this show? ‘I’m worth every penny’? ‘I’m meant to be here’? ‘I’m going to make you beg for a piece of me’?”

My reflection in the mirror shows someone playing a part—perfect makeup, hair styled, lips plump and parted slightly like I’m thinking something other than get me out of here .

“I just want to feel like me again,” I say quietly.

Grant doesn’t respond right away. His gaze roams over me and the room before he stands and walks over.

“Then, let’s find you. Not Vegas you. Not heartbroken you. Just . . . Josie.”

He whispers something under his breath to the assistant, and she scurries off.

When she reappears moments later, she’s holding up a flowing royal-blue silk dress—not flashy, not glittery.

Just clean lines, a high neckline, and a low, open back.

Understated, but memorable in all the ways that matter.

It takes only a second to slip the smooth fabric onto my body. In the three-paneled mirror, Grant inspects every detail for a long moment before nodding. “That’s the one.”

I twist in the mirror, finding a more confident, taller, sharper me. I earned this life-changing opportunity, and I can go anywhere and do anything I want. The woman staring back at me is the Josie Jones I always knew I could be.

Contentment trickles through me and it feels good.

“I’ll take it.”

◆◆◆

After three grueling hours of navigating glamorous but insufferably pretentious boutiques—while running on half a stale blueberry muffin—I’m barely hanging on. Somewhere between the third dressing room and my tenth side-eye from a saleswoman, the sparkle I’d found fizzles out.

At one boutique, I overheard a bored attendant mutter that I was “difficult,” and I’ve been chewing on that ever since.

Maybe I am being difficult. I can't help that my heart and thoughts are not focused on me and finding a stupid dress.

They're across the country with a sweet little girl and her big brother, who are both struggling unnecessarily .

Eventually, Grant finds the dress for my first cocktail meet-and-greet event, and I let him swipe my credit card with a flourish, just so we can leave.

We drop our bags back at the hotel and change for dinner before heading out into the neon-lit night. Apparently, I’ve earned a “fabulous meal” and a “scene-stealing entrance” to cap off the evening.

Please Goddess, help me. Any goddess will do. Just send reinforcements and an extraction team.

The restaurant Grant picks is both opulent and obnoxious. The front door is deep purple lacquer framed in burnished gold, which I admit, I kind of love. Inside, it’s all dim lighting, chrome accents, and pulsing bass from the dance floor bleeding into the dining space.

My vegetable alfredo sits in front of me, untouched. Ever since the DJ started enhancing the electronic music with affects, feeling like steel nails driving into my skull in an incessant rhythm, I can’t think, much less eat.

“This is soooo Vegas, ” Grant says, beaming in his element. He waves across the table at my full cocktail glass. “You need to drink that. Live a little.”

I only ordered the Cosmopolitan to keep his complaints about my mood to a minimum. A curly orange peel clings to the rim, matching the neon-orange liquid inside. Combined with the glittery blue stem, the cocktail seems to be trying too hard to be cheerful. Something we have in common .

I toy with the straw and consider draining it just to feel something . But the memory of the last time I drank too much fizzes up like a warning from my empty stomach.

Grant’s points at something behind me. “Is that the museum director?”

I squint through the cascade of pink and white lights washing over the dance floor.

A woman in a strapless black cocktail dress—complete with a fuzzy, feather hem and glittering stilettos—sways near the edge of the crowd, gauging the scene with cool detachment. Her lipstick is blood-red and flawless.

“Maybe she’s lonely,” Grant mutters. “I can fix that.”

He bounces out of the booth and strides toward her, back straight, charisma loaded. He taps her on the shoulder and, just like that, they melt into the dance floor. His charm really should be illegal.

I let some tension out with an exhale and sink back in my chair, the Cosmo now my sole companion.

The last time I visited in a place like this, Hayes was with me, holding me close under string lights in Nashville or swaying with me in a quiet Richmond restaurant. Both times, the world disappeared. He made the simple moments meaningful. Magical.

This? This feels like makeup smeared over something broken.

I open my text thread with Hayes, just to read his message one more time. As I do, three gray dots appear.

A bolt of energy surges through me as I wait .

Hayes: Hey. Sorry I missed your message. Just touched down. Got a quick layover before doing it again.

Me: That’s OK. I’m so happy to hear from you. Where are you?

Hayes: Charlotte, North Carolina.

Me: How’s Ava?

Hayes: Hoping to find out for myself soon. No one will tell me.

Me: That’s not good.

Hayes: I know. Mom’s terrified, and she never gets scared.

Me: Maybe Ava just needs her big brother.

Hayes: I’m not sure I can.

Me: What do you mean?

Hayes: What if she’s holding on just long enough to see us all one last time?

My stomach twists, fingers going cold despite the warm glass on the phone.

Me: Hayes, you can’t think like that.

Hayes: I know, but everyone will be there. Even our father.

I’m not sure how to respond. Like most topics involving his world outside our bubble, his father has only come up once in conversation. The ghost we both silently agreed not to acknowledge.

Hayes: I wish you were here.

My, that hurts my heart.

Me: Me too.

Hayes: What are you doing today?

Me: Grant made me go shopping, and now I’m sitting alone at a restaurant while he schmoozes the museum director on the dance floor.

Hayes: Would you mind finding a Vegas rock for Ava? I forgot.

Me: Of course. I’ll start the search in the morning.

Hayes: Thanks. I need to go. They’re letting us off the plane.

Me: Darn. Please call me if you need to talk. No matter the time. And give Ava and your mom a hug for me.

Hayes: I will. Have fun.

Me: You have all my love. I hope you remember that and can feel it, even though we’re miles apart.

I stare at the screen a moment longer, feeling both healed and devastated at the same time. I can’t hold him tonight. Can’t lessen the burden of what he’s about to face. But I can love him. Fiercely. From wherever I am.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s something he can hold on to.