Maybe this is good for me. Flávia is not only okay with stealing my henna ideas, she’s also not interested in me. She’s interested in a gangly, pimply lad who is definitely not in her league. I guess I shouldn’t judge, because I’m not in her league either.

I close the door and edge away from the sitting room, trying to get the image of Flávia and that guy out of my head. Even though they weren’t doing anything, there was definitely some kind of attraction. I could see it in the way she was looking at him. The way she was touching him. The way he was looking at her. God, when did I become this girl? Obsessing over someone I never had a shot with anyway?

I sit down at the bottom of the stairs, halfway between the kitchen and the sitting room, and slip my phone out of my pocket.

There is still only the single image on my business Instagram. It hasn’t racked up many more likes since that first day—unlike Flávia’s photos. She’s been posting new ones on the daily, all pictures of Chyna and her friends’ hands with henna designs on them. Some pictures show the dark brown henna paste, some the aftermath, when it’s dried to a dark red color.

I’ve been trying to feel optimistic every time she posts a photo. The more henna she uses up on her friends, the less she’ll have for customers. And I know it will take Raj Uncle at least a little while to get a new shipment in.

I send a quick text to my group chat with Chaewon and Jess. This is the worst party ever. But of course, all three of us knew it would be. What did I expect?

They don’t respond, probably too busy living their lives and actually enjoying themselves.

I consider leaving the party as I scroll through my Instagram feed, barely paying attention to the pictures. Ammu and Abbu said they would swing by to pick us up later, but I’m sure I can just wander around outside until that time comes. We’re in the middle of Dún Laoghaire, one of the poshest neighborhoods in Dublin. I doubt I’ll be in any danger if I wander by myself for a while.

I’m pulling out my phone to text Priti about leaving, even though I’m still angry with her for bringing me here and abandoning me, when the sitting room door swings open. The loud blare of music that had been drowned out by the closed door spills out again. Along with Flávia.