a bunch of bananas, Maxwell House coffee, and the drip coffee maker that sat on the counter in her parents’ kitchen. They had simply torn its plug out of the wall and would go without it, for her.
By the time they had eaten the provisions from Gayle, the strangest thing had happened: the video began to work for them. Someone, somewhere, had taken it and edited in a sound. Womp-womp, went the sound, as Paulina careened. Perhaps it was because the news said the model was healing, perhaps it was because everyone had seen the fall too many times to be shocked again—people decided they liked the womp-womp version of the video. They began to laugh about it. They shared. “We are ALL Floss Natuzzi some days,” someone wrote, and suddenly, astoundingly, everyone agreed.
That was when Aston Clipp showed up, calling his name through the door.
When Floss opened it, all Orla could see was a giant cube of jewel-toned flowers. Aston’s face was completely covered by them; what she saw first was his hands, golden tan and expertly manicured, cupping the bottom of the vase. The bouquet was too wide to fit through the doorway. Aston barreled in anyway, snapping blooms’ necks on the door frame, crushing petals underneath his space-age high-tops.
When he set the flowers down, Orla saw that there was not just one person behind the flowers, but three.
There was Aston, looking just as he did in photos, if slightly smaller. He was easily the best-looking person she had ever seen. His thick black hair fell into his gaze and curled along his jaw, which had a tripod of dimples—both cheeks, and one in his chin. His dark, curved eyes became, as soon as he walked in, the room’s magnetic pole.
Behind Aston, bent over picking up flowers, were Craig and Melissa. Craig was a compilation of unappealing parts—mottled skin, baby-blond hair, watery blue eyes, small teeth—who nevertheless carried himself with the pomp of a handsome man. Melissa was startlingly muscular, with a burnt-sienna spray tan and hair about the same shade, shellacked into tight spirals. When they were finished cleaning up, Melissa took all the petals and brushed them into Orla’s palms. Orla knew what they thought right away. They took her for Floss’s assistant.
“This apartment,” Aston said to Floss. “It’s special. I’ve been at the Bowery for months. I hate it. It’s, like, too nice. They won’t stop making my bed.” He looked up at the flickering orb by the door, down at the scuffed parquet. “This place is so—nothing. But sometimes it’s the soulless places that turn out to have the most soul.”
“Exactly,” purred Floss, whose name wasn’t even on the lease. “That’s so like you to get it.”
Aston pushed off the drywall. He went and stood so close to Floss, the rest of them looked away. “It’s over with Paulina,” he said. “And I’d love to get to know you. Can I take you to dinner?”
“Omigod, of course,” Floss whined through her nose.
Craig looked up from the phone he had been assaulting. “Great,” he said. “Now that’s done. And we come with the deal, Melissa and me.” He pointed at himself. “Manager.” He pointed at Melissa. “Publicist.”
“You mean, like, for the date?” Orla said.
Craig ignored her. He looked slowly from Floss to Aston and back, then turned to Melissa. “I think this will be good. I think this will be huge,” he said to her, scratching his jaw. “What do you think?”
Melissa tossed her hair. Orla heard the racket of her hard curls settling on her back. “I think what I always think,” she said. “That if we ride the wave and never fight it, there will be good things ahead for all of us.”
Aston took Floss to dinner. Orla waited into the night, drinking coffee to keep herself up, thinking that Floss would want to dissect the entire evening when she came home. But the two of them stayed out till sunrise, then slept all day in Floss’s room. By day two, Orla still hadn’t seen them again, but she had heard the door open and close a few times. The next time she came out of her bedroom, she saw that Aston’s things—clusters of glass-bottled essential oils, a remote-control helicopter, great heaps of sneakers—had materialized in the apartment, making it seem young and boyish and smaller right away. After that, he did not leave. Sometimes, Orla minded very much—her back was sore from picking up toys and shoes, and her ears were sore