Nice? Now I do squirm, because if I don’t, I might hit something. “Nice” is how teachers describe your clothes on school picture day. “Nice” is how you describe a neighbor you don’t know particularly well. The last time Sel and I were dressed up together at the Selection gala, he’d called me stunning. He’d stared at me like I was part-princess, part-goddess. Was that just because Nick was there? Or because I was just Page Matthews and not… all of the things I am now? I shake my head. Can’t go down that road, don’t even start. I’m not with Sel. It doesn’t matter if he says I look good in the most boring way possible.

“ ‘Nice’?” Alice, however, is already halfway down that road and gaining speed. “ ‘Nice’?!” Alice scowls at Sel, and I extra-love her for being salty on my behalf. Thank God for best friends. “Does your vocabulary only include basic adjectives?”

Sel ignores her, looks around impatiently. “The service here is lacking. If I had my phone, I’d leave this establishment a horrible review for their horrible service.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” a voice says. “We aren’t on any map, so ’fraid you can’t leave the Crossroads Lounge a review.”

A young woman with golden-brown skin and large eyes greets us. She’s around William or Sel’s age, wearing a bright red apron, black boots, and a red-and-black corset—an actual corset. It pushes her cleavage up in a way that’s much more impressive than whatever this top I’m wearing does. If I’d known we were going to a place with this sort of dress code, I might have picked something different from the closet. Her outfit kinda makes me want a corset.

“Hello,” Sel says in a low voice. His eyes catalog her ensemble in a heartbeat, then he meets her gaze with a slow grin. “I’d like to order a drink.”

I shift in my seat, and tamp down the impulse to compare that grin of Sel’s to the ones he’s given me. Then I shake my head. That doesn’t even make any sense. Why do I care about Sel’s grin right now? It’s an act anyway. I hope.

The girl laughs. “I figured.” Then she drops a bowl of olives in the center of the weathered wood table, pulls a spiral-bound notebook from her apron, and tugs a pen out from behind her pinned-up curls. “I’m Emma, and I’ll be taking care of y’all tonight. We’ve got a local brew on tap this week, ‘Better Angels.’ Sort of a spicy stout. A citrus-y wheat called ‘Calamity.’ ”

“We’ll take a couple of each, Emma,” Alice says, smile much too big.

“Alice!” I hiss. No way they’ll believe we’re old enough to drink.

But Emma only smiles at me. “You want something different, honey?”