Page 6 of Lance

Nia laughs, the sound throaty and familiar. She has a great laugh. “Willa, you’re being silly. Lance likesyou—”

“Lance barely knows Iexist.”

A small corner of my mind acknowledges that it’s probably a bad thing that I feel a little tingle running across my skin just from saying his name, but I try to ignore it. There’s very little about this situation that isn’t bad. Why on earth had I let myself fall for my brother’s bandmate? For someone who’s supposed to be as smart as I am, I’m certainly proving myself to be plenty stupid when it comes tolove.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Nia says. Apparently predicting that I’m about to start arguing, she raises a hand. “And if he doesn’t know you exist, he will after tonight. You look gorgeous, Wills. You really do.” She tugs on my hands. “Come and look. I’m just aboutdone.”

I follow her over to the mirror on her dresser and for a second, I hardly recognize myself. My hair, normally pulled back in a messy ponytail, hangs across my shoulders in a thick, glossy curtain. She’s done something to my eyes that I can’t really put my finger on, but they look bigger somehow with the expertly applied eye shadow and liner. Even the lashes, which I had been sure would make me look like a clown, have a subtle effect of highlighting my eyes. And have my cheekbones always been that defined? Where had that golden glow come from? Certainly not the sun—though my university is located in Los Angeles, I haven’t been out much in the last few weeks. I could thank finals forthat.

“What do you think?” Niaasks.

“I think I look like a completely different person,” I murmur, leaning closer. Where was the pale, mousey girl I was used toseeing?

“You don’t look like a different person,” she says firmly. “You look like you. Just a littleenhanced.”

Enhanced was one way to put it. “You’re really good atthis.”

She grins and flips her curly brown hair over one shoulder. “What can I say? I’m apro.”

She means that literally, by the way. Nia is a model—an honest to God model with an agent and a portfolio that features spreads from more than a dozen major magazines. And you would know it just by looking at her. She’s the kind of woman who you can tell is exceptional from the moment you meet her. It’s not just that she’s gorgeous—and she is. Like,seriouslybeautiful—but something about the way she carries herself, the grace with which she walks, the way she holds her head. Nia Jacobs is special and everyone knowsit.

The universe must have thought it was playing a funny prank, putting us together in the freshman dorms three yearsago.

Luckily, the joke wasn’t on me. Nia and I bonded our very first weekend in the dorms when we both skipped a floor party to stay in the room and watch old episodes ofDoctor Who. Imagine my surprise when the girl who had been intimidating the hell out of me since the moment we met reappeared in our dorm room after only twenty minutes at the party and started squealing about the Tenth Doctor, who just so happened to be my favoritetoo.

Even more surprising, I found that the more we talked, the more we had in common. Nia might look like the latest incarnation of Tyra Banks, but under her beautiful, confident exterior she’s actually incredibly insecure (she’d left the party that night because she couldn’t work up the nerve to talk to anyone) and very serious about her studies (pre-law), two things I know allabout.

After meeting Nia, for the first time in my life, I actually had a friend. And I will be grateful to her for that until the day Idie.

“Besides,” she continues, her grin growing mischievous. “I’ve been waiting for my chance to get you in a makeup chair for yearsnow.”

“What a trial it must be for you,” I shoot back. “To share your apartment with frump girl all this time while you swan around lookinggorgeous.”

“Ithasbeen a trial. To see those beautiful eyes of yours everyday and just know how amazing they would look with a little liner.” She rises from her chair. “We should getdressed.”

“Are you leaving?” I yelp, my nerves hitting me all overagain.

I can tell she’s struggling not to roll her eyes. If I wasn’t in such a state I would appreciate the effort she’s putting in, but as it is I’m having a little trouble keeping my breathing steady. I’m not sure why, exactly, but the thought of being on my own, even for a few minutes, is sending me into a panicspiral.

“I need to finish my hair,” she says. “I’ll be right next door if you needme.”

“You can’t do it inhere?”

“Willa.” She waits until I turn to face her. “If youreallydon’t want to go to this thing, we don’t have to. We can stay right here and that would be fine.” Her expression is calm and I know at once that she’s being sincere. She would give up her opportunity to hang out with glittering celebs and music industry people at a swanky Hollywood party if I wasn’t going to be able to handle it. Her eyes search my face. “But I think you’ll regret it,” she adds. “I really think youwill.”

I don’t answer for a long moment. Deep down I know she’s right—if I chicken out right now I really will regret it. Just like I’ve regretted passing on so many of the limited opportunities I’ve had to be social—to be normal—over the course of mylife.

“What if I make a fool of myself?” I ask, too cowardly to look up at what I just know is the pitying expression in her eyes. Nia knows better than anyone that I’m not being hyperbolic. Making a fool of myself is a very real danger for me—one I’ve had plenty of experience dealing with. I’m not talking about your run of the mill shyness here. I’ve been known to get so worked up by the pressure of trying to talk to someone that I actually start crying. Or make myself sick. To say that social settings and I just don’t mix is a massiveunderstatement.

“Then we’ll leave,” she says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Like I said, you’re never going to see most of these peopleagain.”

“James will,” I point out, looking up at her at last. Some of the panic has receded, in no small part because of her steady calm in the face of my freak-out. “James will see these people again. It’s a big night for him. I mean, wouldn’t that be just my luck—to let everyone know he’s the brother of Freak-girl on one of the biggest nights of his professionallife?”

Nia’s expression hardens. “We’ve talked about that word. I don’t like it. You’re not afreak.”

I don’t bother arguing with her. There’s something about the way her eyes are flashing that tells me, in no uncertain terms, that she’s not going to put up with my self-deprecationtonight.

And maybe it’s time I followed her lead in that department. “Go get dressed,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “I’mokay.”