Rebound

To Veronica—for her patience, boundless talent, laughs over sushi, and the world’s greatest eggplant dip. Ever.

—LO

To S.N.C., my Danish sister.

—VR

S
ome nights call for a Catwoman costume.

And this is
definitely
one of those nights.

Reason number one: It’s Halloween. I haven’t lost my mind completely, contrary to what my parents seem to believe after my spectacular last-semester wipeout.

Reason number two: I’m on my way to a party hosted by the new girlfriend of my ex-boyfriend. I’m pretty sure that calls for an armor of sleek leather. And a whip.

I stretch out, stiff as a ski, across the backseat of my Porsche Cayenne, while Philippe—my best friend and unofficial stylist—steers the vehicle in much the same way he does everything: with the grace of a polar bear on rollerblades. It’s amazing, because he’s compact and lithe, and his sense of style is ridiculous. And yet, in
twenty-two years, he doesn’t seem to have established a firm connection between his brain and his appendages.

He lurches to a stop at a green light, and I almost tumble from the seat. Behind us, a car blasts its horn, and Philippe rockets away again, throwing me back into the plush upholstery.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and his shoulders lift into a shrug.

If I could sit up in this costume—or even
breathe,
I’d never have let him behind the wheel. But a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. Tonight, that means having Philippe sew me into a skintight leather costume, complete with a glossy mask, pert ears, and a faux mink tail, so that he can deliver me to a party where I’ll get to face the living reminders of my worst mistake.

All in the name of business, I tell myself, trying to euthanize the butterflies in my stomach. Tonight’s agenda: Get in, get out, and make sure nobody gets hurt, including me.

That means nothing stronger than club soda. A lesson I’ve learned through hard, and humiliating, experience. I just need to say some polite hellos and stay long enough to size up my soon-to-be coworkers and, most especially, Adam Blackwood, CEO of Boomerang and the person my dad plans to make the recipient of an obscene amount of money.

Philippe maneuvers the car up the winding canyon road. Wispy clouds drift overhead, framed by a hazy night sky tinged gray by the faint glow of city lights below.

“How’s it going back there, Miss Daisy?” he asks.

“So funny. If you hadn’t made this so tight, I could sit up there with you. I’m going to need you to cut me out of this thing.”

“Well, I sewed you in,” he says. “I can cut you back out again.” Philippe purses his lips and glances in the rearview mirror. “And do you or do you not look amazing?”

I take a deep breath and run my hands along the costume’s bodice, which is elegantly boned and cut to perfection. He’s created
an absolute miracle in giving me curves in this thing and in making it sexy but not trashy.

Struggling to a half sitting position, I say, “I do.”

Tonight, he’s helped me feel delicious and daring—as far from society girl Alison Quick as it’s possible to be while in my own skin. And that, I realize, is exactly what I need to face the night ahead.

“And are you or are you not heading into a lion’s den filled with ex-lovers and people you may someday have to fire?”

I laugh. “I love your imagination, but I think you need to have more than one of something to refer to it as a plural.”

He tosses me a meaningful look and almost runs my car into a sage bush.

“Watch out,” I say. But he’s right. One ex-boyfriend. And one big mistake. I guess that makes it plural.

The GPS directs us up a steep side street, and we climb up toward a sprawling modern home that looks carved into the hillside. The backyard must have an incredible view of the city.

“I really can come in with you,” Philippe says for the third time.

“But you don’t have a costume,” I tease.

It’s tempting to bring him along as a buffer, but he’s too safe. If he comes in with me, we’ll be glued to each other all night, and I need to mingle with these people. Even though I’m anything but natural at this part of the game. Especially sober.

“That doesn’t matter. I can just say I’m dressed as a hot-ass fashion maverick.”

I laugh. “True. But I promise I’m okay. And you’re just a phone call away if I need you.”

As we approach the house, I see that the long driveway is crammed with cars, which means I’m facing a steep walk in high heels. Of course, these are sleek Gucci knee boots, totally worth the discomfort. Besides, I always commit, and you can’t be Catwoman in sensible shoes.

Philippe stops the car, and I remind him to put it in park before getting out to help me.

He does, leaving the engine idling, then slips around to the back to give me a hand as I wriggle my way out of the car like a mackerel flopping across the deck of my dad’s boat.

Finally, I manage to plant my stiletto heels on the ground. “Wow,” I say. “I’ve never felt so graceful.”

“The leather will loosen up,” Philippe promises. He scans me with eyes the reddish brown of cinnamon and, biting his lower lip in concentration, makes a few adjustments, including reaching right into my bodice to manhandle my breasts.

“I beg your pardon.” I glance around for other partygoers but, mercifully, we’re alone. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” drifts down to us, along with murmured conversation and laughter. I feel another tingle of nerves and anticipation.

“Please,” he rolls his eyes. “They’re merely accessories to me.”

I slap at his hands. “I object to the use of
mere
in reference to my breasts.” Especially since it’s true. And especially since I’m going to face Ethan’s new girlfriend, Mia, who’s built like a curvier Scarlett Johansson.

He runs his fingers around the mask, tugging it down just a bit. His Issey Miyake cologne wafts over me, as familiar to me as the scent of the ocean or the stables where I keep my horses—all scents I love.

“You look amazing, Ali. I promise, I wouldn’t let you walk in there otherwise.”

“I know.” I lean down to give him a kiss on the cheek. With these stilettos I’m probably 6'2", which puts me a good six inches over Philippe. “You’re the best. And I’ll be fine.” Now that I’m here, a part of me looks forward to the night. Not to seeing Ethan but to getting a feel for the others and making my first report to my dad
later. He always says I have infallible instincts where people are concerned, though I’m not sure I’ve proved that to myself yet.

“I have total faith,” Philippe says. “Now go have some fun.”

“This is work,” I remind him.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But ‘go have work’ doesn’t have much of a ring to it. Besides, you’re also allowed to have fun.”

“I know, I know.” I face up the hill and square my shoulders. “Fun it is.”