Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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Jo thrusts the glossy magazine toward me for the third time today, her tortoise-shell sunglasses sliding down her nose.
"You're in a magazine!" she squeals, fanning the cover like it's on fire. "People. As in People People."
The sun is merciless, turning the pool deck into a griddle. Hannah's off with Jo's parents, so we've been stretched out in bikinis and SPF 50 since noon. I lift my sunglasses to my head and take the magazine from her dancing hands.
"Yeah, it's... cool," I say, squinting at the pages.
"Cool?" she gasps. "You're next to the King of England. The actual King!"
Page three: two photos of Greyson and me. One at Disneyland—his arms locked around my waist, his face buried against my neck, my smile shockingly unforced. The other on the red carpet, hand in hand, his eyes fixed on me like I'm the only person in the room. Even at the ESPYS, I don't look as awkward as I'd feared.
Jo leans closer, peering over the rim of her sunglasses. "You guys look insane. I don't know what I want to talk about first—your shoes, your dress, or the way your boobs looked in it." She makes a dramatic gesture at her own chest. "Seriously. Fashion Police would've crowned you Best Look if it were still on. And Greyson..." she sighs, flipping the magazine closed and tossing it at me. "If you're not careful, strangers are going to start hating you online for no reason."
"In this world, that's how you know you've made it. Sadly." I slide my sunglasses back over my eyes and sink into the padded headrest of the pool chair.
"You two are like The Notebook," Jo sighs. "Apart for years, then reunited, falling in love all over again."
"Life isn't a movie, Jo."
"I know." She pops a gummy bear into her mouth. "But inspiration for the stories has to come from somewhere."
Jo's been a hopeless romantic since she devoured Wuthering Heights in sixth grade. I'm convinced it's why she struggles with relationships—romance lives rent-free in her head. She still expects men to stand outside her window with a boombox or break into song on a soccer field, and when they don't, she's disappointed. I've stopped trying to talk her out of it, though. After what Hannah's father did, I can't help but admire how fiercely she still believes in love. That stubborn hope is one of the things that makes her shine.
"So," she asks, tilting her head, "how was it?"
"We already talked about this."
"No." She leans in. "You told me about karaoke and late-night tacos on a street corner. Hannah's been glued to your side since you got back; we haven't had a real debrief."
My mouth curves into a smirk. "What kind of details are you looking for?"
"You know..." She wiggles her brows and does a little shoulder shimmy. "The dirty kind. Did he razz your berries?"
