Perfect people hate to be called out on being perfect. Because being perfect isn’t perfect. A perfect person needs to have just the right amount of flaws.
“What?” Afton’s eyes become ice. “A slut? Is that what you’re about to say?”
“No!” I say immediately, shocked. I’ve been taught never to say slut. The word feels dangerous in my head. “No. I did not say that.”
“It seems like you were about to say it.”
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s not fair.” Now Afton’s cheeks are each stained with a blotch of nearly neon pink. She stands up and starts to pace. “It’s not like I’m promiscuous, Ada. Yes, I’ve been with three guys in two years. And yes, the first two were big mistakes—you don’t even know—but that’s why I’ve been trying to tell you that you aren’t ready for—”
“You don’t get to tell me what I’m ready for,” I interject. “I’m not like you,” I say again.
Afton turns to face me. “How are you not like me? Enlighten me.”
I scoff. She’s got to be kidding me. “I mean, outside of the obvious differences. Everything always works out for you. That’s not me. I have to think things through first. I did think this through. And tonight with Leo, it was going to be the one part of my life that I did right. This wasn’t the same as hooking up with a stranger in a garage, or some rando boy at a party because you had too many wine coolers.”
Afton stares at me silently for a minute. “Well, I’m sorry your plan to be better than me didn’t work out the way you wanted it to.”
She stalks off toward the house.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, too late for Afton to hear. I shiver.
The fire has burned out.
8
All day I replay our first conversation, from when Leo and I met, about a million times in my head. How I recognized him. How I went up and asked him if it was weird being his mom’s muse. How I told him that I was an artist, too, and he seemed genuinely interested. Because of course he did. Leo, if nothing else, knows how to deal with artists.
Then after we talked for a while, he asked, “So do you know my mom?”
I’d stared at him blankly, unsure of how to answer his question because it seemed so obvious. Of course I knew her. That was why I was there. “Yeah, I’m a huge fan,” I said finally.
I actually said that I was a fan. That’s the word I used. God.
“I mean, have you met her, in real life?” he asked.
“Oh. No,” I said, my cheeks heating. “I just admire her enormously.”
“You should meet her.”
“That’s not necessary,” I protested, but he’d already grabbed my hand and was towing me over to where his mother stood in the back corner, next to a woman in a white linen dress who was drinking a glass of red wine. I was momentarily distracted from my panic by the feel of Leo’s enormous fingers enclosing mine. He pulled me right up to Diana Robinson like it was no biggie. Which I guess it wasn’t, for him.
“There you are, Leo,” Diana said, as if he hadn’t been parked in a chair directly in her line of sight the entire evening. “And who’s this?”
All eyes turned to me expectantly. Even Leo didn’t know my name at this point. I had forgotten to tell him.
“I’m Ada,” I got out with difficulty. “Ada Bloom.”
“She’s an artist,” Leo said.
Diana smiled, a real smile, as warm as Leo’s hand that I was still inexplicably holding. “Ada Bloom is an artist’s name.”
“Thank you.” With my free hand I tucked a strand of flyaway straw hair behind my ear. Looking at Diana was like looking at a piece of art herself. She was wearing a little black dress with a beaded necklace that sparkled under the gallery lights; her bobbed hair waved around her face in something that reminded me of flapper fashion from the twenties; her lips a bright, well-defined red, the same color as her heels. I wished I’d worn nicer clothes. I was wearing fricking jeans and my purple art shirt, topped by a somewhat ratty gray cardigan my grandmother had knitted for me years ago.
And Diana Robinson was looking at me.
“I’m a . . . huge fan,” I breathed. “I mean, I love your work. Every time I look at one of your sculptures, I see a detail I never noticed before.”
“Oh? Like what?” she