I nodded, pressing my lips together, my thoughts spinning.

I had a theory—even though I’d never told anyone, not even Kat—that love was about paying attention. It’s the one thing you can’t buy or fake or make up for at the last minute. So the things that meant the most to me were the little details that told you someone had been paying attention, memorizing your random preferences, letting you know they cared. It was why it mattered to me when I met my mom for breakfast near the Pearce and she had my favorite scramble waiting for me, just the way I liked it. Why when Kat ordered my drink perfectly at Starbucks, it always made me smile. When Teri brought me a bag of sour peach slices, it was more than just bringing me a snack. It was saying, I see you. I know you. Have some candy.

I had just never thought that Margaux would have been one of those people, and I was suddenly ashamed of myself. “Thank you,” I said, pulling open the bag. “Want one?”

“Always,” Margaux said with a grin. She took a chip, then slung an arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the curtained area. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

Five minutes later, I was feeling better than I had dreamed was possible. I’d taken off my shoes—and Margaux and the wardrobe assistants behind the curtain had let out gasps of sympathy at the blistery, bloody mess that my feet had become. But even though I knew I should be embarrassed, it was actually just such a relief to get my shoes off and have the pain stop that I didn’t really care my feet were horrifying fancy fashion people.

Margaux had jumped into action, getting first aid supplies from the kits she explained came to every shoot with them—Neosporin, Band-Aids, moleskin pads to put over the Band-Aids so they wouldn’t rub. It reminded me of when Kat had shown me her dance bag—which she was still holding on to despite the fact that she wasn’t still dancing, not that she seemed to like me to point that out.

Once my feet were patched up, Margaux had eyeballed them and procured a pair of flat leather boots for me to wear, made by a designer whose name I recognized but whose shoes I’d never actually seen in person. I tried to protest, but Margaux steamrolled me, giving me a pair of cashmere socks to wear with them, telling me to treat my feet gently for the rest of the night and assuring me they’d look great with my jumpsuit.

She gave me a canvas bag for my terrible heels, even though I was tempted to tell her to just throw them away, and when I’d pulled on the new boots, she stepped back to admire her handiwork. “I think they look awesome.”

I nodded and tried to give her a smile, but then had to look away, blinking hard.