Mercifully, the doorbell cuts through the tension filling the room and Gia squeals, effectively ending any conversation. We each take one last look at ourselves—and do one last lip gloss application—before heading out to the staircase to let our dates fully appreciate our glamorous descent.

“We’re going as friends,” Kiki murmurs just loud enough for me to hear, and I catch the flash of her smirk as she passes me so she can be the first to walk down.

Her words slash sharp and hot at my insides as the layers of her statement hit me.

Layer one: Kiki absolutely knows about my feelings for Jasmine, and maybe even knows about our history.

Layer two: Kiki put herself out there as queer to test the waters and wanted me to see that Shannon and Gia passed with flying colors.

But Kiki doesn’t know about the party, the song, how Jasmine basically told me to fuck off in front of an entire room. She doesn’t know how much deeper I got in with Chase. She’s clearly more of a romantic than I thought, or at least a better friend, but even Stratford’s greatest detective is missing some pretty important pieces to this case, and there’s no filling them in now.

Especially when I reach the top of the stairs and see Jasmine standing at the bottom.

She looks … radiant. There’s no other word for it. She’s wearing a two-piece dress that’s all glittering gold on top and matte on the bottom, short enough to show off long legs that glimmer with a little bit of that lotion I love. She’s wearing a fancier set of gold bangles than usual and they match the earrings that march up her lobes. Even her eyes look like liquid gold, lined with kohl. It feels like someone has reached into my chest and squeezed the shit out of my heart and I have to stop staring at her, but I can’t.

Not until I hear “There’s my girl!” in Chase’s affectionate voice and it’s like someone’s dumped a bucket of Gatorade over my head and drawn latte art with my internal organs.

Does that even make sense? I don’t know. Nothing does.

I force myself down the stairs in my silver platform heels and take the hands he extends, accepting the kiss he drops delicately on my cheek so as not to mess up my makeup. With every move he makes you can tell he’s done this before—been the handsome guy picking up his beautiful date who’s told him not to muss anything before pictures. But that knowledge doesn’t affect me and I don’t know if it’s because I’m aware of who he’s dated in the past, or because I feel strangely numb as everything moves around me.